


Ghosts and Dreams

by Miss_Sketchi



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alive Starks, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, BAMF Aegon, BAMF Jon Snow, Dreamscapes, Dreamsharing, Fix-It of Sorts, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Jon Snow is not called Aegon, Multi, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Prophetic Dreams, R plus L equals J, The Long Night, Warging
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-20 13:57:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 76,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13719147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Sketchi/pseuds/Miss_Sketchi
Summary: The Ghosts of Winterfell have woken to help the living fight against the Army of the Dead and magic has begun to shift the tides of the coming Winter.





	1. Jaehaerys I

Jaehaerys Targaryen was sitting in a deep green summer wood, facing a Heart tree. His hair of long night-black curls swayed in the faintest of breezes. Next to him, sitting comfortably close was his brother Aegon.  His elder brother by two years sported long blue locks and the Martell olive skin. 

 

The similarities between them were more subtle, but plain as day when they were side by side. The shapes of their noses, their mouths, and cheekbones were the same. They even had purple eyes, but Jaehaerys’ looked near black. Aegon’s were the vibrant shade of Valyria that their father had. Both brothers sat in silence, staring at the weirwood that looked back. 

 

Aegon the Head of House Targaryen was known as Young Griff, and Jaehaerys the Heir was Jon Snow the Bastard of Winterfell. The only living people who call them by their real names are each other; the rest are ghosts.

 

“Have the Ghosts of Winterfell grown antsy again?” Aegon asked, mistaking the cause of  Jaehaerys’ melancholy. 

 

“They have. More so than usual,” Jae answered after a pause. The other unexplainable aspect of the two brothers is their being able to see the ghosts. They haven’t told anyone they can see the departed spirits, they’d be considered mad. The ones that they’ve always known are their parents and their sister Rhaenys. As they grew older more ghosts woke and roamed that they could see. 

 

“Your uncle’s fishwife angering them again?” Aegon asked, impassive. Jae sighed. Many of the Ghosts of Winterfell are far from happy with an Andal as the consort to the Stark of Winterfell. His grandfather Rickard is still bearing the brunt of their displeasure, and Grandmother Lyarra is one of the opposers to the Southron lady.

 

“Many find fault in her heritage,” he explained uneasy. “Let alone the Sept she keeps, and the way she raises her children being too Southron for their liking.” 

Aegon gave a shrug. "She is Southron," he stated simply. 

 

“They like me well enough, and I was born in Dorne,” Jae countered. 

 

A hand lay atop his own in the dark green  grass. “You are more of a Stark than her eldests and definitely more  than she could ever hope to be,” Aegon reassured giving his brother a bright grin and a squeeze of the hand, “You have never strayed from the Old Gods, you hold the customs of the North and the First Men in your heart.” Aegon turned to look at him. His face fixed and lilac gaze unwavering.

 

Jae frowned at his words. He is not fond of Lady Catelyn, and is distant from Sansa, but he is close to Robb. “Besides,” Aegon continued, “none of her children were taught the Old Tongue and runes by the Kings of Winter themselves.” 

 

“I’m the only one who can, Egg,” Jae cut in before his brother went on a tangent. “You know that magic runs strong between us.”  _ And only us,  _ he thinks morosely.  

 

The ghosts were antsy in the realm of the living, but not truly being a part of it anymore. Since each brother is often the only one capable of communicating with the ghosts in their particular regions, the ghosts often spend time with the two. Which led to many lessons taught by many a person ranging from their parents to ancestors who died ages ago. 

 

“Aye, dragonblood bears magic,  _ valonqar _ ,” Aegon agreed. “But,” he added, pointing towards the carved and bleeding face on the weirwood, “it’s not the gods of Valyria who tied your dreams to mine, nor the Seven who’re responsible for our ancestors being visible to us.”  

 

Jaehaerys turned his eyes to the Heart tree. It was massive, smooth bone white trunk as wide as two men, and its blood colored leaves framed the grim face that looked back at them. 

 

“Whether a little or a lot, Jae,” Aegon mused aloud. “The blood of the First Men runs in our veins.”  They sat in silence for a time, hands still touching. They just basked in the peace of the summer, and in each other’s presence. Until they woke up on different sides of the Narrow Sea. 

 

* * *

 

 

Jaehaerys - Jon Snow- woke up in his bed at Winterfell. His hearth bore no fire, for the cold of the Northern summers didn’t bother him. Curled up in his bed was a very large black cat, that blinked at him in annoyance.

 

“Morning, Balerion,” he groggily greeted his sister’s cat. From what Rhaenys told him, after her death in the Red Keep, she brought her kitten to the North when she followed him as a baby. Lord and Lady Stark have tried getting rid of Balerion, but he always finds his way back to Jae. 

 

Balerion grumped before stretching out. Jae stretched himself as he steadily grew more awake, his arms reaching towards the ceiling.

 

For as long as they could remember, both brothers were capable of two unexplainable phenomena. One was  their ability to meet in their dreams, and it always took place in a wood with a Heart tree. The other: seeing the ghosts of their families. 

 

One of which was poking her head from the foot of his bed. “Good morning, big sister,” he greeted with a sleepy smile. His elder sister grinned back, and crawled onto the furs closer to him. She would forever be four years old, and was tall for her perpetual age, she had the same olive skin as Aegon, and the same dark purple eyes as himself, but much of her appearance was that of Mother Elia’s. 

 

She gave him a toothy grin. “Did you see Egg again?” she inquired excitedly. “Aye,” he affirmed with a nod. 

 

“I’m going to visit him later,” she told him, petting Balerion and eliciting a purr from the grumpy feline. “He said that they were going to move again, and he always gets nervous when they leave port.” 

 

One of the things Rhaenys can do that Jae cannot, is something all ghosts can do: move to different haunts at will. Given the separation between the brothers, their parents and sister rotate between them at different intervals, so that there is always at least one of them nearby should they be needed. 

 

“After he calms down and settles in Volantis, I’ll be back. Grandmother says she’ll tell us stories again when I do,” Rhaenys continued both speaking and petting. “I want to hear the story about Ser Bonifer again,” she explained. 

 

Jae grinned at her. “You always ask for that story,” he noted, getting out of bed and changing into day clothes. 

 

“Well I’ve met the other people from Grandmother’s stories,” she retorts, standing on his pillow as Balerion jumps off and lands with a thud. He just grinned back as he laced his boots. 

 

Balerion hissed at the door before a knock came. “You awake, Jon?” Robb called out, knocking at his chamber door again. Balerion hissed again, and Rhaenys was at his side. 

 

“I’m awake,” he answered, stepping towards his door. Rhaenys took his hand, and gave it a reassuring squeeze. She gave him a bold grin, jumped up and wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug. 

 

“Knock him into the dirt again, Jae,” Rhaenys hollered before vanishing like mist in sunlight.

 

He opened the door, revealing Robb’s slightly tired face. “Come on brother,” he crowed, “it’s time to break our fast. We have a long lesson with Ser Rodrik this morning.” Robb took a step forward, and Balerion pounced. The cat bit and clawed at his booted foot. Robb cursed something fierce trying to shake the large cat away. Jae gently pulled Balerion off, blinking at Robb’s chagrined face. 

 

He set the cat back in his room and gently closed his door. “Your cat is a menace Jon,” Robb grumbled as they started their way down to the Great Hall. 

 

Jae gave him a side-eye. Robb was a bit red in the cheeks and ears, his clear blue eyes fixed hard in front of him. “He’s not really mine,” Jae murmured. Robb did not hear him, and decided to strike up a conversation about something other than cats. They chatted as they sat down for their morning meal. 

 

In the Great Hall, Jae saw the living breaking their fast and the Ghosts of Winterfell amusing themselves. Uncle Brandon  was currently wrestling with Rodrik Stark, the King of Winter who won Bear Island from the Ironborn. And his Mother Lyanna and Mother Elia were watching with amusement, leaning into each other as Uncle Brandon was about to lose again. Grandmother Lyarra was wailing over how prim and Southron Sansa was at the High Table and how she was so different from Arya to Grandfather Rickard. 

 

Robb and Jae sat next to Theon, and began piling their plates with hearty food. Theon was rambling on about his latest visit to the brothel, which Jae tuned out to bite into a chunk of sticky honey bread. 

 

His eyes roamed the hall, not bothering to listen to Robb’s response when he stopped mid chew. There was a ghost in the center of the hall. He was bearded and his tall stature was enhanced by the crown of bronze swords on his head, like many of the other Stark kings that roamed Winterfell. But Jae didn’t recognize this one. 

 

The unknown King of Winter gazed about the hall, lingering on the rotting beams overhead, and the cracks forming in the stones.  _ “They are not ready,”  _ the King despaired in the Old Tongue.  _ “Why have they not prepared for what is coming?” _

 

Jae felt a sense of foreboding wash over his bones. 

 

“What are you staring at Snow?” Theon asked in a mocking tone. His words brought the attention of the ghost king, leading Jae and he to lock eyes. Jae looked away, and turned to the hostage Ironborn. 

 

“My mind’s image of you flat on your ass again,” he quipped, taking another bite. Theon scowled and muttered about arrogant bastards under his breath. 

 

“I won’t let you win as easily as last time Jon,” Robb announced with a broad grin. “I’m sure that today is the day you’ll break your winning streak,” he optimistically added. Jae did give Robb credit. He dedicated more of his free time practicing, whereas Theon Greyjoy slips out for the Wintertown brothel every chance he gets. 

 

“He says that every other time,” Mother Elia sighed with a shake of her head. She and Mother Lyanna had moved next to the three of them. 

 

Mother Lyanna snorted at the mention. “Brandon did the same with me and horse racing,” she remarked. She shook her head with a fond smile that Robb couldn’t see. 

 

Robb, ignorant of the attention he was receiving, stood and declared that it was time for them to get going to the training ground. 

 

As they began to rise, all stuffing their cheeks with the last bits of their morning meal, Jae caught sight of the despairing ghost king. The king was staring straight at him with intense Stark grey eyes, his long face unreadable. He didn’t let his gaze linger on the ghost because the Great Hall was full of living people. So he turned and trailed alongside Robb and Theon out to meet Ser Rodrik. 

 

And the ghost king followed the three youths of Winterfell out of the Great Hall. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Aegon I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aegon in Essos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am going to apologize ahead of time for any Catelyn fans. Fair warning: I am not the biggest fan of her and will give her hell in this story. I will be giving several characters a rough time in this, as well so it's not a total Fix-It.

Aegon woke up to a sensation of rocking, and the almost feeling grass beneath his hand. He groaned and rose in his cabin aboard the _Shy Maid_. Part of him was glad to be moving on from Pentos. He always worried what would happen if he lingered in an area too long, having a face so much like his father’s would declare his identity for those who stood long enough to get past the blue hair.

 

But another part of him was frustrated. His whole life he’s been trained by his foster father Jon Connington to one day take back the Iron Throne and the Seven Kingdoms, but he seems no closer to that than when he was a boy with a wooden sword.

 

He was pulling his tunic over his head when he heard a familiar giggle from behind him. “Hello, sister,” he cheerily greeted when he finally put the garment on. Rhaenys was smiling up at him, rocking on her bare feet in tandem with the waves.

 

“Hello Egg,” she giggled, continuing to rock back and forth. “Jae said you met again,” she blurted, padding up to him as he continued to dress.

 

He nodded, allowing a smile to spread across his face. His sullen brother was a welcome sight. The didn’t meet every time they slept, nor in every dream they had, but it was a consistent enough occurrence that made him feel more at ease.

 

“Typical troubles with the Ghosts of Winterfell and the Trout, it seems,” he concluded, smoothing out his clothes. “Not that I blame the Stark ghosts,” he added to himself bitterly.

 

Rhaenys nodded. “She’s mean to Jae,” she said with a solemn nod. Aegon knew that was an understatement.

 

He remembers having to comfort his little brother when they were young boys for her cruel spite and pettiness brought Jae to tears. And he heard the outrage of their parents and grandparents at his treatment in Winterfell. Rhaenys even mentioned siccing Balerion on her. It makes his blood boil because he can only help Jae through their shared dreams, and the ghosts can’t tell her who exactly she’s been unjustly cold-hearted to. Aegon has never met Lady Catelyn, but he hopes for Lord Eddard’s sake that she never crosses his path.

 

“Mama and Lya are with him,” she said, taking his hand in a comforting hold between both of her small hands. “And Balerion is keeping him safe,” she added. Aegon smiled, he’s heard that Balerion is a big cat now with long, sharp claws.

 

“Lord Eddard won’t let his wife harm Jaehaerys,” their father broke in. Aegon and Rhaenys turned their eyes to him in surprise.

 

Prince Rhaegar is twenty and one years, lean, and of an agile build. His hair is the same silver locks Aegon constantly dyes, but it curls the same way as Rhaenys’ and Jae’s do. Aegon, at six and ten years, stands at the same height, Mother Elia had said that he had his Uncle Oberyn’s height and build. Jae had their father’s.

 

Their father was staring at them with a brief flash of melancholy, before striding towards them. Rhaenys hugged him in greeting, and Aegon flashed a brief smile. He had mixed feelings about his father, now that he has grown.

 

He does love him, he does. Their father spent as much time with him as possible, teaching him by day and singing songs to him atop his lap in the night. His father used to play pretend and simple games with him when Aegon was small.

 

But he learned of his father’s final actions, and a part of him cannot forgive him for tearing his family apart in both distance and death. And from what he could tell, his father felt guilty and was determined to do right by his sons as a ghost.

 

“Lord Eddard truly loves Jaehaerys, he won’t let his wife harm him,” Rhaegar reiterated, hugging Rhaenys back. “He’s already done much for him.”

 

Aegon didn’t say anything, not wanting to get riled by arguing that Lord Stark could have done more. Denied not only birthright, but even his brother’s own name, he knows that Lord Stark could have done something more to do right by Jae and Mother Lyanna. But he is too tired to have this argument again, and bit his tongue.

 

“Aegon,” Father spoke directly, holding Rhaenys in his arms. “You have tactics with Connington after you break your fast, and lessons on Westerosi noble houses after your midday meal.” Aegon nodded, understanding and accepting. “Before you sleep, your great-great grandfather wants to speak with you concerning ruling,” he tacked on.

 

Aegon blinked rapidly. “The last King Aegon?” he blurted. Father nodded solemnly.

 

Aegon was shocked. His Targaryen ancestors were not always frequent ghosts, especially the older ones who look at the later generations as markers of the decline of the dragonlords of Valyria. Thankfully his grandfather, the Mad King, nor Aerion Brightflame has ever made an appearance to either him or Jae. Jae swore he caught a glimpse of Maegor the Cruel once as a young boy, but Aegon hopes he was mistaken.

 

He couldn’t help but be excited. He has spoken to Aegon the Unlikely before, even spent time with his former Kingsguard. They’ve talked of many things: brothers, friends, love, adventures. But never has he wished to teach Aegon in ruling.

 

He stood stupefied before a knock came from his door. “Aegon?”  Jon Connington called out.

 

Aegon shook his head to clear his thoughts. “Come in,” he beckoned. Jon opened his door and came inside. He walked straight through his father, and shivered.

 

“Damn draft,” he murmured, walking towards Aegon. He turned to face the head of House Targaryen and relayed the first half of the message his father already gave. He told the exiled knight that he’ll be ready for his lessons when it comes time for them.

 

Aegon was expecting him to leave shortly after that, but Jon stayed and bore his eyes into Aegon. His eyes flickered with warring emotions, and eventually the man gave him a smile. “I know you’re impatient, but your time will come soon, Your Grace,” he said in a placating manner.

 

“Perhaps,” his father intoned in High Valyrian “even sooner given how the Baratheons are destroying the Seven Kingdoms.”

 

“Perhaps,” Aegon agreed with a nod.

 

Jon shook his head vehemently. “Reports from Lord Varys," he retorted, not hearing the ghost of the Silver Prince "say that the Usuper has brought the Seven Kingdoms to near ruin. The Crown is bankrupt and the Lords Paramounts are divided among themselves. There are many who wish for the return of dragons, now more than before,” he asserted.

 

_All but a handful of people know I live,_ he thought. _Even less know of my brother. So it must be Viserys and Daenerys the Westerosi Loyalists wish for._

 

But Aegon didn’t point any of this out to his foster father. Instead he was straight-faced, and looked at the knight with glittering eyes. “If it’s dragons they want,” he promised “Then dragons they will get.”

 

If his aunt and uncle want Westeros they can come to him. For he is Unbowed Unbent Unbroken In Fire and Blood.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all liked it!


	3. Robb I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A typical morning in Winterfell for Robb

Robb was excited to get into the training ring. He much preferred the rush of a swordfight to droll lessons on etiquette or dealing with numbers. A fight was much more straightforward and easy to discern. 

 

He turned his view and saw that Theon was wearing his usual smirk, no doubt thinking about that whore he enjoys visiting so much in Wintertown. Robb shifted his gaze to his grim brother. Jon was frowning, his dark eyes flitting about him as they walked on. 

 

Mayhaps he was nervous about finally being bested. It was a known fact that Jon was the best swordsman Winterfell has seen, perhaps the best in the North. And Robb was determined to best him one day, for brothers are best friends and rivals rolled into one person. 

 

The three met up with Ser Rodrik and went about the routine of putting their training armor on, and picking their dulled swords. Robb and Theon chatted amicably as they did so, Jon silent as usual. 

 

They fell into their usual routine. One on one duels, starting with Robb and Theon. The two friends heartily went at it. Their dull swords rang and clashed with every strike and counter. Every so often the Master-at-Arms would bark corrections and instruction at them. Jon never made a sound that Robb could hear. 

 

His bout with Theon ended with both boys dripping in sweat, grinning at Robb’s victory. Ser Rodrik praised him, and both of them took a break for some water. Robb gulped down his water, and his eyes went to Jon. He saw that his brother seemed a bit tense, his eyes kept averting him and Theon. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, wondering what could be on his mind. 

 

“Next, Robb and Jon,” Ser Rodrik announced. Robb gave his brother a grin before hopping back in. “You boys know the rules: no cheating, no low blows.” The grim knight reminded as each Stark son took their stance. 

 

Robb was the first to strike, and was quickly countered by Jon. Jon was quick and lithe, dodging many of Robb’s blows and blocking the rest. Back and forth they went, with Robb giving his all and Jon not wavering under his heavier strikes. It went on for what felt like moments. Robb began to feel more tired as it went on, but he saw his opening. Robb feigned a strike to his right, and began to strike left. Robb thought he had finally bested his brother. 

 

Only for Jon to counter his move, and hold his blade at Robb’s chest. “Victory goes to Jon,” Ser Rodrik declared gruffly. 

 

Robb was staring at Jon incredulously. “How,” he began in a sweaty pant, “did you know?” 

 

Jon wiped the sweat off his brow with his tunic sleeve, and breathed hard as he caught his own breath. He casted his eyes on Robb, and the trueborn Stark felt compelled to listen when he saw those dark eyes fixed on him.

 

“Your eyes give you away,” Jon spoke simply. 

 

“Aye,” Ser Rodrik agreed. “Watch a man’s eyes, lads. They’ll tell you a man’s intentions better than his sword swinging.” After giving this advice Theon was paired against Jon. The bout was short and ended with Theon on his rear, his sword lying out of reach and Jon’s pointed at his throat. Jon gave him no sage answers, just a stilted nod before drawing back his blade. 

 

Their lesson went on in the same manner. They fought, Ser Rodrik taught and Jon never lost a match.  Robb stood taller and broader than him, beginning to fill out more like their lord father and most Northmen. Jon may be short, and lean, but he was quick. And he always used that to his advantage. 

 

When their lesson was called to a stop, all three went back to remove their training armor. Theon was quick to slip out, whether in the search of summer wine or a skirt to chase couldn’t be said. Jon unusually lingered about, his eyes darting this way and that. 

 

Robb noticed how strands of black curls clung to his sweat face and neck, having slipped out of the knot he tied his long hair in. Jon always hated getting his hair cut, and at some point when the barber came around and Jon vanished. It was the beginning of a habit.

 

Sometimes Jon could not be found for days, only to later show up in the most mundane setting. No one knew where he went, guards in Winterfell and those who combed Wintertown were never able to find his hiding spot. Robb had asked many times, but always got the same answer: “I was here.” Even Arya wasn’t told where he would go. 

 

“Good job brother,” Robb congratulated, clapping a hand on Jon’s shoulder. Jon jumped a bit at the contact, and whirled around to pin Robb with those indescribable eyes he’s known all his life. A faint smile and softened eyes made Robb grin wider. 

 

“And you Robb,” Jon returned a bit dazed. Robb snorted, and pulled Jon in closer as they left. 

 

“I haven’t bested you as I said I would,” Robb noted. He led them out towards the Godswood for some quiet before carrying on with their day. There were distant birdsongs, and a gentle creaking of branches in a breeze. 

 

“You always improve,” Jon countered seriously. “And at a quick pace too.” 

 

 _But you’re always better,_ Robb thought, taking a long look at his brother. But it might also be in Jon’s blood, he reasoned with himself. No one knows who Jon’s mother is, but Robb has heard the rumors of it being Ashara Dayne. _And it would make the most sense._ _Jon is undeniably pretty, unmatched in swordplay, and his eyes hold a purple tint in the right light._ _Ashara Dayne was hailed as the most beautiful lady of her generation and her brother was the legendary Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of Morning. Who else could be Jon’s mysterious family?_

 

“I should hope so,” Robb chuckled. “If I’m to be Lord of Winterfell, I should be able to fight for myself.” 

 

“Or you could be a Southron and have your men fight for you,” Jon countered. 

 

Robb snorted derisively. “What? And let good men die so I can perfume my beard and wear fancy clothes for another day?” 

 

“What beard?” Jon asked, narrowing his eyes at Robb’s jaw. “I see no beard.” 

 

Robb slapped at his shoulder, grinning. “It’s coming in more than yours,” he remarked. Which was true. Robb had begun to find sparse red hairs on his chin, while Jon’s was as smooth as it always was. “I’ve seen hags with more whiskers than you Jon.” 

 

“And they have more than you too,” Jon countered, his eyes bright and Robb could see flecks of violet in the crisp light. 

 

Robb grinned at him.  _  This is how it will be when I’m Lord of Winterfell,  _ he promised himself.  _  The Pack stays together, Jon will stay and serve alongside me, I’ll make sure of it.  _

 

Jon averted his eyes, and his smile fell. “We’d best be going on about our day,” he spoke evenly, moving out from Robb’s arm. 

 

“Aye,” Robb agreed eventually. They both walked back to the keep. On the way Robb walked through an especially cold breeze that made him shudder. 

 

When they arrived they were greeted by Maester Luwin, telling Robb of his impending lesson. Robb turned to ask Jon to join him, but the words died on their tongue because Jon was already walking briskly away. 

 

Robb followed the Maester, and convinced himself that Jon’s behavior today meant little.  _ Jon is a wolf of the pack, and this is where we belong: together in Winterfell. _


	4. Ned I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned's morning in Winterfell

Ned pinched the bridge of his nose, and suppressed the strong urge to groan. He was  going to watch his sons and Theon spar with Jory when he hears a crash, and Cat came out of her sept in a state of distress. She was greatly upset, and glared about at the servants that passed the building with deep suspicion.  

 

From what he could gather from her and the sole septon, a stone was thrown through one of the stained glass windows as they prayed. Again. 

 

Ever since the building was erected there have been frequent acts of defacement. Windows were smashed, the interior sliced repeatedly, and in one case the statues she prayed to caught fire. 

 

“Where’s the Bastrard?” Cat demanded. “I know that wicked boy did this!” 

 

Ned winced at her comment.  Jon is shy, he spoils Arya with affection, and encourages their sons in their endeavors. He fends Theon off of maids when the boy drank too much. He even read children’s stories to Hodor, for gods sake! 

 

A passing guard loudly snorted at Cat’s comment. “Young Jon is at sword training with Lords Robb and Theon,” he professed. “They’ve been there before you came to pray, my lady.”

 

She repeatedly tried to blame Jon for it, but it never once proved true. He was never in the same vicinity when these acts took place, or was simply too young to do any of the damage. His presence was always accounted for, for he never pulled one of his vanishing stunts when the action happened. 

 

If anything, all of Cat’s finger pointing was simply creating a bigger divide between her and the servants over the years, evidenced by many of the present servants nodding and reaffirming the guard’s statement with enthusiasm. 

 

Cat colored when a longer than necessary interviewing of the present company seemed to point out that whoever has been defacing her sept was not standing nearby. Never once has Ned been able to deduce who has been giving his wife grief, every possible person having an ironclad alibi to the accusation. He’s starting to wonder if the old crones are right and the sept really is cursed. 

 

He delegated the current search to Jory, who thankfully hid his resigned expression from Cat as he carried out the investigation.  __

 

_ I will never understand my wife’s religion,  _ Ned thought as he watched her stride back into the keep with a rigid composure as the long winded septon was spewing on and on about sin and the seven hells. 

 

He heard the servants talk among themselves. “Save yer blabbing for someone who cares,” one maid impatiently barked at the septon. Ned rubbed a hand down his long face as the septon spluttered indignantly. 

 

“Enough,” he said, disarming the septon’s retort before the man could articulate it. “Go check for any other damage, and send word to me if there is any,” he directed to the religious man. The man straightened his robes and strutted back into the sept. 

 

Ned shook his head, and went to his intended destination. 

 

When he got there, the training ring was empty. He saw Ser Rodrik barking at Bran for his painfully wrong grip on the bow he held before the boy went and put the bow and arrows away.  He frowned at the realization that he wound up missing his older sons’ session as well as Bran’s. He noticed that Robb took pains to practice his sword work for today’s sparring session, and that Bran was excited to get his hands on a bow. He wanted to see his son’s accomplishments and skills. And now he missed the chance. 

 

He was pulled out of his disappointment when he saw a familiar head of messy brown hair sneak onto the archery range. He surreptitiously walked closer. Bran had forgotten one arrow which Arya picked up, and she ran back to get the bow.

 

She knocked the arrow with some trial and error before drawing it back. Her first attempt sent the arrow short of the standing hay bale target. She ran forward to fetch the arrow. Her next attempt overshot the target entirely, and she ran to fetch the arrow again. He lost track of how many times his youngest daughter went back and forth fetching and releasing the same arrow. But Arya didn’t give up her attempts, and Ned was grinning at her determined expression. 

 

When Arya finally landed the arrow on target she jumped for joy, grinning broadly at her success. Ned grinned too, and he applauded her. She went rigid and turned to face him. Arya grinned sheepishly at him, trying to hide the bow behind her skinny body. He strode forwards and stood next to her to inspect her mark.

 

Her arrow landed close to the center. “Impressive,” he praised, looking down at his daughter. 

 

She looked between him and the target. “I’m going to hit the center one day,” she declared. “By skill, not luck.” She stood tall, her posture as daring and bold as her wolf blood. 

 

“That day will come sooner if you practice,” Ned supplied. He knew Cat would disapprove of his encouragement, but it was worth it to see his daughter’s eyes light up. 

 

“I can practice?” she asked in wonder.  “Truly?” 

 

He nodded giving her a wolfish grin. She returned it with one of her own before wrapping her thin arms around his middle in a fierce hug. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she repeated into his jerkin. He returned the hug with a soft smile. 

 

“Lady Arya!” Septa Mordane shrieked, followed by the sound of approaching footsteps. Arya looked up at him with wide eyes. 

 

“Lady Arya!” the septa shrieked again getting closer. “It’s unbecoming of a lady to skip her lessons! Lady Sansa never shirks from her embroidery, why must you!” 

 

Ned saw Arya’s face drop into a sullen frown, her eyes dulling. He made a quick decision. “Go on,” he whispered, pointing in the direction away from Septa Mordane.  _ What was the harm in this? _ He reasoned with himself. 

 

She smiled at him, but it wasn’t as bright as before. She put the bow away and scampered off as fast as she could. By the time she was gone, the woman spotted him. She approached him, but Ned was not in an amicable mood anymore.

 

He used to readily agree with Cat’s schooling of their daughters. But everytime he forced Arya to go, a chill fell over him. He reasoned that it was his instincts warning him that he was going to make the same mistakes his father did with Lyanna. 

 

So he indulged Arya’s wolf blood more and more as the years went on, and he cannot say that he regrets it. Arya was happier with the indulgences she got. Cat worried that Arya won’t be able to make a good match, which is probably true if he sought a Southron husband for her. But Arya is the most Northern of his and Cat’s children, and he’s wise enough now to not use her for Southron ambitions. 

 

“Lord Stark,” Septa Mordane greeted, curtseying in the Southron manner she taught Sansa. “Have you seen Lady Arya, milord?” she asked him. “She was supposed to be embroidering with me and Lady Sansa, but she has run off again.” 

 

Ned gave the woman a flat look that made her quiver. Her prior words resurfaced memories of his own childhood. He remembers being compared to Brandon before being fostered, and being the lackluster sibling. He remembers how it felt to hear such words. 

 

“I have not,” he flatly answered. 

 

She gave a quick curtsy and mumbled words he didn’t really care to hear. He watched her leave with a quick curtsy before retreating the way she came. 

 

He shook his head. He loved Cat, and without a doubt he loved his daughter Sansa, but for the life of him he doesn’t understand them and their Southron ways. Nor why they can’t seem to understand the North and the Old Ways. 


	5. Jaehaerys II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two conversations almost wake the dragon

Jae walked briskly across the grounds of Winterfell. With every step he glanced to check for any living people who may take note of his movements. And he glanced behind him every so often to see that the unknown King of Winter was indeed following him. When he saw that he was out of the notice of the servants he made a turn to the Broken Tower. He was sure that Bran wouldn’t be out climbing since he has archery lessons after Jae’s sword training.

 

He opened the creaking door and slithered inside. The ghost king appeared inside in a blink. He looked about the tower in dismay and anger. Jae had seen this reaction before, many ancient ghosts were upset with the current state of Winterfell, and other places in the North. Since his ancestor Aegon the Conqueror came with dragons many felt that there was no need to upkeep castle defenses and that complacency continued even after the dragons died out.

 

But this ghost looked far angrier than that, like the state of the keep was a personal offence. Jae nervously waited for the ghost to calm down, knowing how volatile wolf blood is when roused.

 

After a moment,  the King of Winter took a deep breath and exhale. He pinned Jae to his spot with hard steel grey eyes. _“You can see me, child?”_ he asked in the Old Tongue.

 

 _“I see you,”_ Jae responded in the same tongue, bowing his head. When he raised his head he saw the King’s eyes roam his person, lingering on his face, his eyes.

 

 _“Are you my descendant?”_ the king implored. _“A child who bears the name and blood of those called Stark?”_

 

 _“My blood is that of the Starks of Winterfell,”_ Jae affirmed, standing straight and looking the king evenly in the eye. _“My mother was Lyanna Stark. My name is Jaehaerys Targaryen.”_

 

The King of Winter looked deeply at him, a thoughtful look in his eyes. _“Tis an odd name,”_ he finally pronounced. _“And a long one as well.”_

 

Jae narrowed his eyes. Circumstances keep him from proudly bearing the name his parents gave him. He will give his true name as often as he can.

 

 _“My father was a descendant of the dragonriders of Valyria. His name, my name and those of my siblings are names of Valyria,”_ Jae explained.

 

He may be of the First Men, but he is also _zaldrīzo ānogar,_ blood of the dragon. He knows long forgotten dragonlore and customs from the Conqueror and the ones before him who escaped the Doom. He and Egg hold themselves as true as they can in all the cultures they hail from, be it First Men, Valyrian or Rhoynar.

 

 _“He too bears the blood of the First Men of Westeros,”_ Jae continued, having grown a habit of establishing his father’s ancestry to Starks of old.

 

They don’t mind Valyrians too much since Jacaerys Velaryon and his father, Prince Rhaegar, had taken Stark daughters as wives. It probably helped that Valyrians never cared about converting people the way other invaders did. Surprisingly many Stark ghosts are more disgruntled with Andal ancestry than anything else. He thinks the Andal Invasion, it’s subsequent weirwood burnings and massacres of the Children of the Forest have a large play in that animosity.

 

_“We are kin to the Daynes of Starfall and the Blackwoods who fled the North and established a new keep in the Riverlands,” Jae elaborated._

 

 _“The Kings of the Torrentine are your kin?”_ the ghost asked in surprise. Jae nodded. _“And the Blackwoods? The Ravenmasters as well?”_

 

 _“Aye, a few generation back but yes we are kin,”_ he elaborated, confused about that comment about the Blackwoods. He knows that thousands of years ago they were one of many royal First Men Houses. He has spent nights at Great Great Grandmother Betha’s knee hearing stories of her kin and life, but Ravenmaster was not a title brought up. He’ll have to ask her later.

 

The ghost’s eyes were wide and his face was slack. The ghost blinked and regained his grim composure. _“Child,”_ the king beckoned _“tell me. Tell me the name of the current Stark of Winterfell.”_

 

 _“He’s my uncle,”_ Jae responded. _“Eddard Stark. Son of Rickard and Lyarra Stark. His heir is his oldest son, Robert Stark.”_  Which is an unfortunate name, given what he’s heard about the Usurper as of late from ghosts that regularly haunt the Red Keep for Egg and him.

 

 _“Has young Eddard seen the signs?”_ the King asked. _“Has he read the stars, and heard the winds? Does he prepare to wake the runes and call the Men of Westeros to what is coming?”_

 

Before Jae could respond to that, the door opened and shut quickly. He jumped and turned to find Arya holding the door shut. She stood there, out of breath, and waited for a moment. She eventually turned and saw Jae.

 

She grinned and ran towards him. “Jon!” she happily crowed, oblivious to the ghost  standing right next to her. “You’ll never believe what I did!” she declared.

 

“I don’t know, Arya,” Jae said with an uneasy smile. “I believe a lot of things.”

 

“Father’s going to let me practice archery!” she announced, practically bouncing on her feet. “He saw me earlier  with Bran’s bow and arrow and said that I can keep practicing after my arrow hit the target!”

 

Jae grinned at her, and ruffled her hair. “That’s wonderful, Arya,” he praised. “I’m sure you’ll be able to out-do Greyjoy and make a name as the best archer of Winterfell.”

 

“You’re just saying that because you hate Theon,” Arya chided.

 

“Perhaps,” he acknowledged. “But I’m confident that you’ll do great if Lord Stark is encouraging you.”

 

At those words, she frowned a bit. “He’s your father too, Jon,” she admonished. “Ignore what Mother and Sansa say, they’re stupid. You’re my brother, just as much as Robb, Bran and Rickon are.”

 

He gave her a melancholic smile. _No I’m not little cousin._

 

He decided to change the subject by asking: “Why are you here, Arya?”

 

She blinked. “Just exploring,” she answered, clasping her hands behind her back.

 

He raised an eyebrow at her. “Of course,” he played along. “You being here has nothing to do with avoiding your septa again.”

 

“Of course not,” she repeated, trying to be as nonchalant as possible. Then she looked at Jae again in confusion. “What about you? Why are you here?” she asked. “Is there a septa you’re not avoiding too?”

 

“Well…” he trailed off, trying to come up with a believable explanation.

 

Her eyes widened with an idea. “Is this where you go to when no one can find you!?” she loudly asked. “You’ve been hiding here in the Broken Tower!?”

Jae rubbed the back of his neck. “Once in a while,” he truthfully admitted.

 

“Robb and Bran will be so vexed when they find out!” Arya cheered. “We’ve been trying to find out for years!”

 

“I know,” he dryly responds, making a mental note to not come back to the Broken Tower when he wants his lessons with the ghosts. “You never stopped asking.”

 

“Well you never gave a straight answer,” she retorted stubbornly, crossing her arms over her chest.

 

The ghost chuckled warmly at the exchange. _“She reminds me of my children,”_ he remarked. He peered down at Arya and gave a firm nod. _“Wolf blooded like my wife,”_ he praised with a proud smile. _“She would love to meet you, pup.”_  Arya made no response to the ghost, still looking at Jae.

 

Jae smiled warmly. Arya may not know it, but she is the favorite of many Starks of Old. With her looks and her obvious wolf blood she brings warm smiles to the faces of feared Kings of Winter like Theon Stark and Benjen the Bitter. Uncle Brandon has said many times that Arya is his favorite niece. Grandmother Lyarra adores her because of how much she is Mother Lyanna come again, and is her first unheard defender when she’s criticized for not being Southron in the slightest by Lady Catelyn or Septa Mordane.

 

“Come on!” Arya hollered, tugging at one of his hands. “Midday meal should be starting soon, and I want to eat a lemon cake before Sansa eats them all!”

 

When Arya turned her head, Jae looked at the ghost king. _I’ll be back after_ he mouthed in the Old Tongue. The Stark King nodded his head in understanding, and vanished.

 

The first ghost they came across since leaving the Broken Tower was Grandmother Rhaella. She was smiling kindly at him, her eyes were the same shade of almost black as his and Rhaenys’, and they were warm. He returned her smile with one of his own.

 

 _“I see your shadow found you,”_ she lightly remarked in High Valyrian keeping up with them in graceful strides. His father took to calling Arya his shadow, for his cousin has always toddled after him since she could crawl. His dragon family picked up on it and have been using it for years now.

 

On their way, they were joined by his mothers, who were happily chuckling with each other at the sight of the him and Arya.  

 

Jae let Arya drag her into the Great Hall, and up to join the rest of the Starks at the High Table. He took his usual seat between Robb and Arya, as far from Lady Catelyn and Sansa as possible.

 

He felt the daggers Lady Catelyn glared as he took his seat, but he paid it no mind. Grandmother Lyarra looked ready to bite her head off. Mother Elia was giving her a poisonous look and Mother Lyanna’s was as sharp and forgiving as the greatsword Ice. Grandmother Rhaella ignored her to smile at Arya and coo at Rickon.

 

The meal was large and plentiful. Summer was still going and the harvests had yet to wane. They had begun to pile their plates with hearty Northern food when Sansa felt the need to speak.

 

“Arya didn’t stay in the embroidering circle,” she simpered placing her third lemon cake on her plate with what she thought was elegance. Arya glared at her, and the ghosts joined the youngest Stark girl.

 

“Arya!” their mother admonished. Lord Stark sighed as silently as possible, rubbing a hand at his temple. Robb, Bran and even Rickon groaned at the ongoing feud that disrupted their meal.

 

“Embroidery is stupid and a waste of time!” Arya declared. “What’s the point in it!?”

 

“Ladies need to know it if they want to find loving husbands,” Sansa retorted in a huff, sticking her nose up imperiously.  

 

 _“This girl would be eaten alive at court,”_ Grandmother Rhaella she sighed in High Valyrian. _“What nonsense does that septa teach?”_ she asked covering her eyes in annoyance.

 

Arya snorted loudly at Sansa’s word, ignoring her mother’s chastising again. “Love is stupid,” she retorted.

 

Sansa gasped, affronted, and placed her hand to her mouth in a dainty movement as if she were a love story illustration. He rolled his eyes at her dramatics. No true queen or princess he's known ever acted as she does. 

 

“By the Old Gods,” Mother Lyanna groaned, resting her forehead on Mother Elia’s shoulder. “How is this girl Ned’s?” she asked with a careless wave of her hand.

 

“I’m more concerned by what trouble her naivety will bring us,” Mother Elia spoke, furrowing her brow. She and Mother Lyanna were staring intently at each other, leaning on one another. “How hard would it be to trick her into harming our families Lyanna? A girl this senseless could reveal the wrong thing to the wrong people.”

 

He heard how vicious and deceiving King’s Landing and the members of court are from Grandmother Rhaella, his father, Mother Elia and many Targaryens. “The Game never changes, only the players,” his great grandfather and namesake King Jaehaerys warned both him and Egg. "Everyone has their own plans and aims, smiling at you one day while putting a dagger in your back when most convenient."

Spies hide throughout the city. Jae and Egg know that, for ghosts who haunt the Red Keep have warned them about all the spy factions and their ambitious cloying masters. Like those belonging to Lady Catelyn’s childhood friend, Lord Petyr Baelish. The rumors Uncle Brandon, Grandmother Rhaella, and many Targaryen ghosts overheard the Master of Coin spouting about himself and the Tully sisters certainly makes Uncle Brandon wish he ended their duel on “his terms” and Grandmother Lyarra scrutinize Lady Catelyn with the eyes of a waiting predator.

 

“Ned should wash his hands of her and be done with it,” Grandmother Lyarra growled, her lovely long face marred by an angry wolf like snarl, and steely eyes fixed on the red haired lady. “Let her go South like she wishes and leave the North be.”

 

He saw his uncle take a deep drink of his ale as Rickon’s gaze flicked between his two sisters. Bran looked like he wanted to be anywhere but there, and Robb was pinching the bridge of his nose in annoyance. Jae felt a headache coming on and began to rub his temple. His royal grandmother was doing the same.

 

Having decided that he’d rather pilfer the kitchens, or forgo a meal than listen to the two Stark sisters squabble again. He rose from his seat, feeling his temper rise as their nonsensical quarrel continued with raised voices..  

 

He gave a brief look at Sansa, before moving his gaze on Arya. He gave her a wry smile and patted her head. “Love is sweet, dearest Sansa, but it cannot change a man’s nature,” he said looking at his uncle before leaving his seat.

 

He heard Lord Stark choke on his ale and cough as he left the Great Hall without a backwards glance.

 


	6. Jaehaerys III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A name is learned in the Crypts of Winterfell

Jae was walking out of the Great Hall in an angry huff. He cannot understand Sansa. Rhaenys may be a ghost, but she isn’t vindictive to either him or Egg. If anything, the opposite. As far as he could remember, she’s been sweet and as protective as a dragon guarding treasure.

 

He knows that Sansa’s pettiness is a large factor in why Arya clings to him, which pains his heart. Arya looks at him as an older brother, someone to fill the space Sansa should be occupying. But he’s not her brother, neither full nor half; which gives him a sense of discomfort. He loves Arya like a little sister, he would die for her if he had to. But he feels guilt in continuing his deception with her, and worries what the truth coming to light would do to Arya.

 

But that day has not come yet, so for now let him be Arya’s loving Stark faced brother.

 

He was pulled out his thoughts, the waking dragon sleeping once more when he saw the unknown ghost king motioning for him to come to the Crypts. He walked straight for the Crypts, stepping into the familiar dark passageways with ease.

 

Being the only one in Winterfell to see them, many of the ghosts wanted to see him, and pass on knowledge that’s been lost over the generations.The more recents kings like Torrhen Stark taught him the Old Tongue as the King Who Knelt was fluent in both what was called the “Northern and Southron Tongues.” Bael the Bard, or Sygerrik of Skagos as he called himself at times, taught him how to hide in the Crypts if he’s being hunted down. He was particularly delighted meeting Prince Jacaerys Velaryon and his beloved wife Arrana Snow, Cregan Stark’s sister.

 

Many people don’t often come down to the crypts of Winterfell. But ever since Jae could remember, a ghost, usually Mother Lyanna, or later Grandmother Lyarra, would take him by the hand and lead him down into the final resting place of the Starks. He remembers times when his father would lead him down, following Mother Lyanna’s steps, carrying Jae in his arms.

 

And now standing at his side was his father, Prince Rhaegar.

 

Jae turned and greeted him warmly. Father smiled and hugged in greeting.

 

“How’s Egg?” he asked, slipping into High Valyrian. The two descended down into the resting place of Mother Lyanna.

 

“He was nervous about lingering again,” Father answered in his own smooth Valyrian. “And he heard word of Westerosi supporting our House.”

 

Jae was confused. “Who are they supporting?” he asked. Most Targaryen are dead, the rest scattered and hidden across two continents.

 

His father had a grim face. “It wasn’t said, but Aegon believes Viserys has supporters, and through him Daenerys too.”

 

Jae grimaced. He’s heard unsavory things about Viserys. And that Daenerys obeys him and fears him. He fears she will suffer the way Grandmother Rhaella did, as it seems likely that she’ll become a sister-wife too.

 

“Egg won’t let them take his chance,” he said, knowingly. Egg wants the Iron Throne. For all the wrongs dealt to their House, for all the wrongs their House had dealt, Egg can only make amends and get overdue justice when he reclaims the throne.

 

“No,” Father said, allowing a small smile. “Both of you are as stubborn as your mothers and I.”

 

Jae smiled back.

 

Father and son were interrupted by a boisterous voice calling out “Jae! Rhae!” Both turned to see Uncle Brandon coming towards them.

 

Jae bit back a laugh at his father’s annoyed expression, complete with the ticking eyebrow of his. Father hates being called anything but “Rhaegar”, and when Uncle Brandon found that out he’s called him “Rhae” ever since.

 

“What brought you down here?” his ghost uncle asked Jae. “Lyanna said you left without eating, and she was in a foul mood when she went to go accompany Aegon.”

 

“There’s a Stark king I don’t recognize,” he began, slipping back into Westerosi. “He motioned for me to come down so we can continue our conversation.”

 

Both Uncle and Father frowned as Jae explained their prior conversation. “That’s unusual,” Uncle Brandon said, running a hand over his short beard in a thoughtful manner.

 

“More ominous than anything else,” his father mused, looking at Jae with concern.

 

“I’m going to speak to him,” Jae stubbornly announced.

 

His father opened his mouth, but he was cut off by Uncle Brandon saying “Of course you are,” in a knowing tone. To appease his worried father, both ghosts would follow Jae to meet the unknown King of Winter. And Uncle Brandon had in hand the iron sword that was placed atop his tomb.

 

Everyone who was raised in Winterfell knows that upon the tombs of kings and lords you place an iron sword, and for more ancient ancestors you placed bronze. _“To keep vengeful spirits from leaving the crypt and harming the living,”_ Uncle Ned said to him and Robb when they were small.

 

And his uncle was half right. The swords do protect the living from vengeful ghosts who haven’t left the world. But the swords are wielded by the kings and lords that they were given to. It is they who protect their descendents from vengeful souls, driving out malicious ghosts with swords of iron and bronze. And some, at the side of a snarling direwolf ghost.

 

He heard from Uncle Brandon that he got some justice against the Mad King by keeping him away from Egg with the ghosts of loyal Kingsguard. And he heard from Grandmother Lyarra that Grandfather Rickard took up his iron sword to defend Winterfell when the Mad King turned his sights on Jae, and was keen on tormenting Grandmother Rhaella once again. Both Stark men were satisfied in getting some justice from viciously striking Aerys the Mad and keeping their family safe from him. He hasn’t been seen since by either Targaryen brother, or the ghosts that protect them.

 

Jae and the two accompanying ghosts went deeper and lower into the Crypts. His father had retrieved a brand that Jae took hold of. “I’ve never been down here before,” he murmured as they trudged into more cavernous levels, gazing at the statues of Starks and direwolves that were looking back.

 

Jae heard the padding of heavy paws and stopped walking. He raised the brand and the light shone on the ghosts of direwolves the size of horses. The Starks of Old were wargs, and their companions were direwolves. He’d seen the massive wolves roaming the woods and the lands outside of Winterfell since he was seven. But never inside the grounds of Winterfell, especially this close.

 

He froze when one massive she-wolf as gray as the wolf on the Stark banners came loping forward and stared eye to eye with him. He just stared at her before she sniffed his face. Jae held his breath, but the she-wolf didn’t snap her massive fangs around his pale throat. She gave his face a lick before tugging at his tunic, moving him forwards.

 

“Well that’s new,” Father murmured in shock as Uncle Brandon stood their gaping.  “What the fuck is going on?” his ghost uncle blurted out.

 

Jae straightened his back and held his head up. “Only one way to find out,” he said before following the direwolf deeper into the Crypts of Winterfell.

 

Down in what is the deepest chamber of the crypts was the King of Winter. The she-wolf walked up to him, and the unknown king pet her head with a fond smile. He stood next to a small pile of stones, and the direwolf sat next to the pile, resting her head atop the rocks.

 

 _“Who are they?”_ the unnamed King asked, eyes flickering between Father and Uncle Brandon.

 

 _“This is my father, Rhaegar of House Targaryen,”_ he introduced in the Old Tongue, gesturing to his father with an open hand. _“He is the husband of your descendant Lyanna Stark.”_

 

The King held his gaze on Father, his eyes roaming his person in appraisal. After a while he gave him a curt nod. _“Are all you Targaryens prettier than Northern daughters?”_ the king asked Jae. _“I’ve seen many moon-haired ghosts too pretty to be human in this place.”_

 

Jae frowned. _“Many ghosts of my father’s family watch over me and my brother in Essos,”_ he said ignoring the first question.

 

 _“This is my uncle, your descendant Brandon, son of Rickard and Lyarra Stark,”_ he continued, motioning to the sword bearing ghost. The ghost looked at his uncle in surprise and walked over to him. He stood a yard away, but he peered so keenly at his uncle’s face.

 

 _“You are so young,”_ the king remarked with eyes soft and sad.

 

Jae winced as he feels the guilt that crushes him like a wall being sieged on both sides.

He felt the wolf and dragon tear at each other with fangs and claws inside of him.

 

His father wrapped an arm around him. Ghost touches usually feel cool or icy, but he can almost feel a lukewarm comfort in his father’s. And the wan smile and soothing whisper were warm enough to ease his discomfort.

 

When Jae looked back at the King of Winter, he saw the king staring at the two of them. His face was thoughtful, and his eyes held a glimmer that made them seem softer than the steel and iron color.

 

 _“He doesn’t know the tongue of our people,”_ the King noted in a grave tone.

 

“ _Nearly all people of Westeros speak only the Andal tongue,”_ Jae elaborated with an affirmative nod. _“I’m the only living person in Winterfell who knows the tongue of the First Men.”_

 

 _“You children have forgotten much,”_ the king mused aloud, resting his hand over his mouth as he tilted his head down.

 

 _“Has young Eddard seen the signs?”_ the King implored, boring his gaze deeply into Jae's. _“Has he read the stars, and heard the winds? Does he prepare to wake the runes and call the Men of Westeros to what is coming?”_

 

Jae was confused, but that sense of dread seeped into his bones. His dragonblood knows that something is to come of this king’s words. Daenys the Dreamer warned him to never ignore his feelings and his dreams, and he has the same feeling he did years ago. The same foreboding that preceded the Greyjoy Rebellion.

 

 _“What is coming?”_ Jae asked, voice tight with dread. His tone brought the attention of his father and uncle, who stepped closer to him.

 

The king looked grave. _“Winter is coming,”_ he anguished. _“And as I feared you children are not ready to fight what brings it.”_

 

 _“Fight what brings--”_ Jae cut himself off when a thought pierced his mind. _“What has enough magic to bring winter to us?”_

 

 _“The Others,”_ the king answered in a grave voice. His grey eyes held a haunted look, the eyes of a man who has seen many terrible things. _“They have come again.”_

 

Jae’s mouth opened and closed repeatedly in his stupor. He didn’t the questions of his father and uncle, his mind puttering. _“But they’re long dead and gone. Stories children hear from old ladies!”_ he voiced his thoughts.

 

The king looked grave and frustrated. _“No they are not. They’ve returned to bring a fate worse than death to all who breath,”_ he insisted. _“Otherwise I wouldn’t have woken to get you children ready for the war to come.”_

 

Jae’s mind was swimming. _“What could be a fate worse than death?”_ he asked.

 

 _“Being turned into a wight,”_ the ghost answered. _“You know ghosts linger. How would you feel, watching as your corpse goes to kill and devour all that you love? Your dead body tearing your family and friends to pieces as your ghost can do nothing but watch them all succumb to that fate too?”_

 

Jae felt like he wanted to be sick. _“How do you know that they’re back?”_ he eventually asked, his voice shaking.

 

 _“Have you never wondered why ghosts have woken?”_ the king asked. _“When a spirit has lost interest and ties to the mortal plane we slumber before moving on to the next life. Once a ghost has chosen slumber, they cannot wake themselves up.”_

 

 _“If that’s the case then why are there so many ghosts that my brother and I can see?”_ he demanded hotly. _“If that’s the case, why are you here?”_

 

The king gave him a level look, like he was dealing with a toddler throwing a tantrum. _“It was the gods that woke us. We have a part to play in this war; both the living and the dead.”_

 

Jae looked at him in bewilderment. Any words he had died in his throat.

 

 _“When the gods woke me from my slumber, I heard them break their silence,”_ the king continued. _“I heard the gods speak. ‘The Others have returned. Guide your descendents for the Long Night comes again.’ I will never forget those words, and I intend to carry them out.”_

 

He stood tall, and grim faced. His eyes shone with resignation and a fierce determination. But his shoulder didn’t sag under his grave calling, instead standing as tall and regal as a true king.

 

 _“The Runes carved into the very foundations of Winterfell and the Wall are ready to wake,”_ the King continued. _“I hear the magic in them sing of the doom that woke them, and the war that they are to protect us from._

 

Jae swallowed the lump that formed in his throat. A thousand questions buzzed in his skull. _“Who are you?”_ he finally asked.

 

The king looked him in the eye, and Jae saw a spark of wistfulness in the steely gaze.

 

 _“My father was one of the Men who swore themselves in the Pact on the Isle of Faces,”_ the king began, his voice taking on a reminiscing lilt. The king placed a large, scarred hand on the stone wall, turning his eyes on the tiny pile of stones the direwolf rested her massive head atop. _“My younger brother was a bold and daring soul who swore to protect his people for all the nights to come. My older brother had many names for me. Brandon the Grim. Brandon the Stark he called me most.”_

 

_“I built this place, a safe place where the winter fell and the dawn was in sight. I built The Wall to keep the Others out, and my younger brother swore he would defend it. He watched for the return of the Long Night until his dying day.”_

 

 _“You’re Bran the Builder,”_ Jae gasped.

 

 _“Aye,”_ the ghost affirmed with a nod his gaze still upon the small pile of stones. _“I have been called that.”_

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	7. Lyarra I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ghost of Lyarra Stark in Winterfell

If you had told Lyarra Stark when she lived that the majority of her grandchildren were Southrons who prayed to the named gods, she would have blackened your eye. But here she is, a ghost watching the Trout step into the sept Ned ordered to be built. 

 

She glared at the auburn head and spat on the building. The lady she had the misfortune to call her good-daughter was just stepping inside when she leaned down and picked up a heavy stone. She threw it up in her her hand and indeed it was wonderfully heavy. Then with a snarl she chucked the stone at the stained glass window. It shattered, the shards of colorful glass spraying the ground. The Southron screamed and she heard a cry from the septon. She picked up another rock and shattered another window. By the time she was satisfied five windows were broken, and her good-daughter was in tears. 

 

She knew that the Southron influence of her grandchildren's mother would destroy the Starks and Winterfell for the coming generations if they took root. This is the heart of the North, for ten thousands years the Old Gods ruled these lands and the lords kept the Old Ways. And she would not rest until the North was safe from the mistakes her husband made. 

 

She saw the red haired lady scurry away with the septon, not noticing her as they fled. All of her children are stubborn but after constant protest to the sept, hopefully her son will realize his folly in building the damned thing in the first place. 

 

Her temper cooled after surveying her handiwork. “What’s Arya doing now?” she asked herself before willing herself to another part of Winterfell. She materialized in the archery range, and saw little Arya making her way to the stables. 

 

Lyarra smiled fondly as she followed the skinny girl. Lyarra may be a Stark, but her mother was Arya Flint, a master of riding among both men and women of the North. Lyarra herself was a skilled rider, and Lyanna as well. Jaehaerys has his mother’s talent for riding, but Arya has the making of being the best of Ned’s brood. She’d make her namesake as proud as Lyarra is. 

 

She was pulled out of her musings with the sudden appearance of Jeyne Poole and her lackluster granddaughter, Sansa. The two spotted Arya and leered maliciously at her. “Finally found where you belong, horseface?” Sansa asked, causing Jeyne to snicker into her hand. 

 

Lyarra was grinding her teeth. Arya glared at her sister and held her head up. “At least she belongs in Winterfell,” Lyarra snapped at the red haired girl. Neither sister, nor the steward’s daughter heard her quip as the true shame of House Stark spouted vitriol to her younger sister, who snapped back at her with sharp teeth. 

 

“Come on Sansa,” the simpering girl said, tugging Sansa’s crisp sleeve. “We shouldn’t waste our time with Underfoot here.” Both girls left with shrill laughs. 

 

“Fucking Suthrons,” she spat, glaring icily at their retreating figures. Lyarra couldn’t help but notice the hurt that touched Arya’s grey eyes. 

 

“Stupids,” Arya muttered angrily to herself, kicking at the hay that lined the floor. “Stupid pretty Sansa with her head full of love stories and songs.” 

 

Lyarra could spot the speck of Sansa’s red hair before the girl went back into the castle. Her granddaughter was what every Northerner expects from a Southron girl: a petty, shallow, useless magpie in colorful skirts. How can such a brat come from her blood? How can Ned, her shy and sweet son, father such a girl? 

 

A loud meow caught the living girl’s and the ghost’s attention. Balerion slowly strutted into the stables. The massive black cat meowed again before rubbing his body against Arya’s leg. Lyarra spotted little Rhaenys’ dark head poking into the stable. The child grinned at her cat before vanishing like mist. 

 

The cat’s action brought a smile to her youngest granddaughter’s face. She gently stroked the cat’s arching back. “Do you think Sansa’s stupid, Balerion?” Arya asked the large feline. The cat meows loudly again. “Glad you think so too,” she said with a laugh, continuing to pet the cat, eliciting a faint purr. 

 

The cat gave Lyarra the idea to have Jae come and spend some time with Arya when he next had the chance. Jae was Arya’s favorite person, save perhaps her father Ned. 

 

Lyarra’s son may be stubborn, but she did her best to steer him away from making Rickard’s mistakes. She always reached out to Ned when he was complacent in trying to turn his most Northern child Southron. And now her quiet son lets Arya be as Northern as she truly is and should be. 

 

Rickard’s Southron ambitions are something she will forever hang over her husband’s head. She respected her husband, but gods be good, what was he thinking? Two marriages to Andals? A Southron as the Lady of Winterfell? Fostering Ned at the Vale?  The North had existed for thousands of years before the Andals set one foot on Westeros, and it will stand strong thousands of years after the Andals leave Westeros. 

 

The content cat made her think of her Targaryen grandchild. She loved Jaehaerys, she truly did. And she understands why Lyanna married the Silver Prince. It wasn’t love at first, but love did bloom between them, and unless she’s mistaken her daughter is more than fond of the Dornish Princess. 

 

She’s not happy that the North knelt and gave up the crown of bronze swords, but the Targaryens never burnt the Heart trees. Nor did they murder the Children of the Forest in the name of false gods. 

 

The Conqueror brought seven kingdoms under one rule with dragons and magic, and when the dragons disappeared they held it with skill. No, the Targaryens were a good match her daughter made in her circumstances. Rickard sold their only daughter to an obsessive lord, and Lyanna rose and became a princess behind Rickard’s back.

 

She was brought out of her musings by the sudden appearance of her husband. Rickard was tall, his coloring is a bit darker than Lyarra’s, and his long, bearded face looked at her and Arya with a touch of happiness. 

 

“How’s your favorite girl, my lady?” he asked Lyarra. Much of his arrogance and ambition died when he did, and she was not wholly welcoming after what he set into motion for her children. But though there are scars that can never be gone, time has mended the wounded bond between her and Rickard. And his defense of Jae and Rhaella from his killer’s ghost certainly sped the process up a beat or two. Especially when she learned how kind the Queen Dowager is even after all the cruelties she undeservedly endured in life. 

 

“She’s doing well considering her sister and that dreadful friend of hers felt the need to belittle her again,” Lyarra answered her husband. Rickard grimaced as he moved next to her. They stood side by side, their arms brushing against each other as they watched Arya pet Balerion with a tender hand. 

 

Lyarra looked at Rickard. Emotions warred in his steel grey eyes as he looked at Arya. Love. Remembrance. Regret. Guilt. “If looks are what Sansa considers paramount, Arya’s likely to be a beauty as she grows,” he remarked. “A winter rose like you, Lyarra,” he added, looking keenly at her face. 

 

“I was no beauty until I neared my flowering. Lyanna grew into her beauty too. Arya’s likely to grow into hers and make Ned fend off undeserving lords with Ice,” Lyarra replied with a chuckle. 

 

She watched her granddaughter stroke the necks of stabled horses, and take moments to pantomime drawing back an arrow. “If Ned doesn’t stop her, she’ll be able to fend those lords off herself,” Rickard remarked with the faintest of smiles.

 

“The future shieldmaiden of Winterfell,” Lyarra mused with a warm smile as she watched Arya’s actions. 

 

Lyarra had heard stories from her mother and grandmother.  _ “Shield in one hand, sword in the other. The shieldmaidens stood in rank with their men and fought just as bravely. They helped fight against the Red Kings and helped the men keep the Ironborn and Andals out of our lands. Some held holdfasts of their own, and formed their own Houses.” _

 

But time is not kind,  most of the keeps of the shieldmaidens are in ruins as they and many Houses, shieldmaid or not, died out in the North. The last of the shieldmaiden Houses is House Mormont. Maybe her granddaughter will bring back the shieldmaidens with help from the she-bears, Lyarra wondered to herself.

 

A ghost appeared before them like a rolling fog. It was Torrhen Stark, the King Who Knelt. His face was ashen and his eyes worried. 

 

“What’s wrong?” Rickard asked their ancestor. Lyarra felt dread begin to curl in her gut when the former king looked more grim. 

 

“The Builder has woken,” Torrhen answered, his heavy baritone laced with hard syllables, a trace of the Old Tongue. 

 

“Bran the Builder?” Lyarra asked in disbelief. Never in the past decade when more ghosts of ages past have woken, has anyone from before the Age of Heroes rose from their rest. 

 

The King Who Knelt nodded his uncrowned head at her. “Yes,” he affirmed grimly. 

 

“Why has he woken now?” Rickard asked, concern coloring his words. 

 

Their ancestor looked between the two before answering. “The Builder sought Jaehaerys out,” he began. That wasn’t surprising, eventually ghosts seek him and his brother Aegon out.  “Jaehaerys went down to the bottom of the Crypts, and the Builder told him why the gods woke him.” 

 

“I talked with the Builder, and he told young Jaehaerys and I,” the once king began. Torrhen Stark, a man who witnessed Balerion the Black Dread with his own two eyes and lived to tell the tale, looked worried, and fearful. He swallowed and struggled to get the words out for a moment. 

 

Lyarra grabbed her husband’s hand, their eyes meeting in a matching pair of concern and panic. 

 

“He said,” Torrhen relayed. “He said that the Long Night is coming again.” 

 

Every child of the North had heard legends of the Long Night. A winter that lasted a generation, when wights ate the living without discrimination. That only ended with the efforts of the Last Hero who gained the forces of the Children of the Forests and the giants, and together they drove back the dead to the Lands of Always Winter. 

 

Lyarra felt that claiming the return of such would be a folly. But she has seen the Wall. Seven hundred feet of ice thicker than any castle defense. It was meant to keep something truly monstrous out, something Bran the Builder feared would return. 

 

“The Wall…” she heard her husband murmur to himself. She looked at Rickard’s face, and his grim scowl and the flash of realization in his eyes made her realize they were thinking along the same track this time. 

 

“He says that the Others have returned,” Torrhen continued gravely. “And that the living are hopelessly underprepared to face them, so the gods woke him from his slumber to help the living.” 

 

Lyarra’s nerves were doused in ice at the words, and if she could she’d be sick. Panic swelled in her. Fear for her grandchildren. Her surviving sons. “Benjen’s the First Ranger of the Night's Watch,” she hollowly remarked. Rickard paled quickly and Torrhen did so as well. Tears welled in her eyes as she held her face in her hands, not brave enough to voice what may become of her youngest child. 

 

“Jaehaerys is the only living person in Winterfell who knows that they’re coming,” she despaired. “Who will believe him? Targaryens have a history of madness, Ned will assume he grew mad if Jae warns him.” 

 

“We’ll figure something out, Lyarra,” Torrhen declared, moving her hands from her face. “I already have my children and other ghosts who know the Northern and Southern Tongues relaying the Builder’s message. Someone in Winterfell will find a solution.”  He told her, giving her head a reassuring pat, like a grandfather does to a child. 

 

Rickard held one hand of hers in a firm grip. His eyes shone with fear and grave concern.  “Gods willing we will. We have to,” Rickard grimly noted. He casts his eyes on Arya who was happily playing with Balerion in the hay. “Or there won’t be a Winterfell come next summer.” 

  
  
  



	8. Sansa I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's day in Winterfell

Her embroidery session was much quieter as of late.  Her, Jeyne and their Septa. Mother joined them today which was wonderful. But Arya hasn’t been back. Father said that instead of embroidery, Arya was to share Bran’s archery lessons starting that afternoon.

 

And she was glad, she looked forward to an afternoon where she wouldn’t have to hear Septa Mordane scold and correct Arya for her stitches. But without Arya the only sounds were pulled threads and and crackling of the small fire Mother and Septa Mordane insisted on having. She didn’t understand why they insisted on having one. It wasn’t cold and made the room stuffy.

 

 _A lady doesn’t complain of discomfort,_ her mind supplied in the Septa’s voice, a lesson she had on proper behavior. So she made her stitches with a smile, not complaining that the extra warmth made her sweat and her woolen dress itch.

 

The short lived conversations petered off and gave way to the growing silence. She focused more on her needlework and soon found her pace faster than their scheduled time, finding a rhythm of the faint sounds to fill in the unfamiliar quiet.

 

Sansa had completed her embroidery. The handkerchief she has been working on now had a delicate trim surrounding blue roses neatly sewn into the crisp fabric. She inspected her handiwork and grinned to herself.

 

“Septa Mordane may I be excused,” Sansa politely asked. The septa looked surprised, but at seeing her completed work she was allowed to leave earlier than usual with her mother’s approving smile.

 

She stepped out of the room with measured steps and her head straight from long lessons from Septa Mordane on poise and posture as a child. _A lady never strides about,_ that voice of the Septa said in her mind, _She walks with neat little steps, her back and neck straight and true._

 

Her footsteps made an even rhythm on the wood and stone beneath her shoes. She was making her way, when she heard a loud shout.

 

She stopped and her eyes followed the sound to the archery range. Her father, her brothers, sister and half brother were there. Bran was jumping in excitement. “I hit it! I hit it!” he joyfully boasted. The arrow was barely hanging onto the target’s furthest ring.

 

“Barely,” Robb said with a chuckle. Jon was covering his mouth with his fist.

 

“Which one of you was a marksman at ten?” Their father asked. Those words made the two boys stand straight and stop laughing.

 

Father turned and Arya stood forward.

She drew back the string and let the bow loose. With a thunk it landed a few inches off the center. But that wasn’t what had Sansa standing there in shock. Even though she wasn’t standing anywhere near him, she could clearly see the proud smile on their father’s face.

 

Robb and Jon clapped as Arya gave a poorly done curtsey in her muddied dress. Bran began chasing Arya about but she evaded him with a grin as she ran off into the keep. Robb and Jon walked off somewhere, talking to each other with their heads drawn close.

 

Sansa’s eyes followed her father’s figure until she couldn’t see him as he went back inside. She wasn’t sure how long she stood there before walking again. _Neat little steps, back and neck straight and true._ The words rang in her mind, punctuated by each even step she consciously took.

 

She stepped into the library of Winterfell. It was empty, Maester Luwin not seen or heard as she paced her way to a shelf of familiar books. She picked up a book and made her way to a seat by a narrow window.

 

Winterfell had few books that Septa Mordane says a lady should read, and Sansa read them all. But this one was a book she read over and over again. It was a lovely story of a beautiful lady and a handsome gallant knight.

 

She opened the book and the first page the book opened to was an illustration. Delicate details and smooth washes of color showed the lady being given a proud and loving smile from her father. Underneath the illustration was a caption written in a dainty scrawl.

 

 _Much beloved was she, the apple of her father’s eye_.

 

Sansa blinked and she saw not the meticulously drawn illustration, but her father’s own proud smile that warmed his eyes being cast at Arya again.

 

 

_“A sister is your first friend Sansa,” Mother said when Arya was a baby. “Your Aunt Lysa was to me, I’m sure Arya will be the same for you.”_

 

That never came to pass. 

 

_“Nothing would make your lord father happier,” Septa Mordane said, “than knowing his daughters have grown into true ladies.”_

 

She does her best to be the perfect lady, follows every instruction Septa Mordane gave by heart and Sansa doesn't receive the proud expression from her father the way Arya did earlier for using a bow and arrow.

 

Her pretty looks and her devotion to the Seven got her plenty of praise from her mother and Septa Mordane. But not that warm smile Father gives. 

 

He never acted like he was ashamed of her. He gave her a generous share of loving looks and warm gestures, yes. Sansa received compliments and soft words from her lord father.  But nothing of respect for her merit and skills like he does for Arya when Sansa showed him her embroidery or the newest hymn she learned. 

 

She looked down at the illustration again.

 

She managed to close the book as her lips started quivering and her eyes started to sting.   


She did everything right, why wasn't her father proud of her? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So after getting a comment about how I wrote Sansa up until now made me realize that I went a bit far without giving her a fair chance in the story. I liked Sansa more, in the show at least, after she wizened up after everything went horribly wrong, but I distinctly remembered her being bratty at first and that's my lingering impression of early canon Sansa. 
> 
> In this story, it's not a lengthy Sansa bashing, but I did incorporate the impressions I remember having before she has her character arc. I admit I may have used that for too many chapters. 
> 
> I was inspired by another book I read when came up with this idea for Sansa. I wanted to give this story's Sansa a reason for her initial behavior before she starts acting more like a Northerner, so I wrote this chapter. 
> 
> Let me know what you think, please! Constructive criticism is always welcome!


	9. Ned II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon talks to Ned

Ned was in his solar, his arms propping his head atop the table strewn with book and documents. Dawn was breaking, so he had candles lit as he worked on the figures laying before his pages. He sighed and went to working on the cost of ale needed. He was not fond of paperwork, his father made the tedious task look easy when he was a boy. 

 

It had been a couple of days since he allowed Arya to take up archery, and still Cat was not accepting of it. She claimed that as a mother she knows best what a daughter must learn, but Ned was not moving from his stance. So Arya shared Bran’s archery lessons and may soon be getting her own if she continues to outpace her brother; and Cat was still trying to get him to change his mind. 

 

He shook his head and blearily focused on the numbers of food expenses, and trying to see if there’s any coin to go to glass. He grimaced at having to tell Cat that her sept will be unrepaired for sometime as he works on the budget for the coming Harvest Feast. 

 

GreatJon and other Northern Lords had asked him if the sept was cursed, word spreading that the building was never unmolested since its completion. He was beginning to consider telling them it was when they came to Winterfell. There was no explanation. He shook his head and dived into the figures, groaning as he mentally worked out the totals. 

 

He had begun reading messages sent in from his bannermen when he heard a knock at the door of his solar. 

 

“Come in,” he called from his desk. But rather than the more expected maester, Jon was walking inside. The boy shut the door and he took a breath and straightened his shoulders. 

 

“Jon?” Ned asked curiously as the boy strode towards his desk with his face set in stern determination. 

 

Jon stood right before the desk and slowly raised his hand. Before sticking his palm directly into the candle flame. 

 

Panicked, Ned stood and pulled the boy’s hand away with a sharp cry. But Jon made no sound, and his face was blank. Ned looked down at the hand he still held. It was unmarked. Not a single burn, not even a tint of red to be found on the pale skin. 

 

Ned looked up at Jon with dread of having to finally explain the truth. The boy looked at him with unreadable dark eyes. 

 

“I need to tell you something Uncle,” Jon evenly stated. 

 

Ned felt the air leave his lungs at his words. 

 

“How do you know?” Ned asked sternly. Howland never left the Neck and Wylla was back in Starfall. Who told Jon? How did they learn the secret? 

 

“I’ve always known,” Jon answered, as he tugged his hand out of Ned’s grip. 

 

Ned blinked at Jon several times, silent. Before he could demand an explanation Jon tilted his head to the side, and was keenly staring at something. Ned followed his gaze and saw nothing that would warrant Jon’s interest. 

 

Then Jon looked Ned straight in the eye. “‘Promise me, Ned. Promise me,’” Jon cut in, the simply stated words twisting cruelly in Ned’s heart. “‘Robert will kill him if he finds out. You have to protect him, Ned. Promise me.’”

 

“Enough!” Ned barked, shaken. Jon stood still and Ned took a long look at him. With long dark hair down that fell well past his shoulders, and that long face, Ned could almost see his sister standing in front of him, saying her dying words again. “How do you--”

 

“How do I know my mother’s final words?” Jon interrupted making Ned wince. “She told me what she asked of you.” 

 

Ned stared at his nephew with wide eyes. “She told you?” he asked incredulous.

 

Jon’s expression grew pensive, and he lowered his eyes to the floor. He didn’t raise them as he continued. “I have always been able to talk to ghosts, Uncle. Mother told me what she asked you to do.” 

 

Ned stood there staring at Jon with his mind racing. It was quiet and tense for what felt like a long time as Ned collected his thoughts. “I believe you Jon,” he said. “There’s no other explanation for you knowing what you just said.” 

 

Jon’s head snapped up, his disbelieving wide eyes showing flecks of violet in the light. Ned suddenly remembered pairs of violet eyes. Ashara Dayne. Ser Arthur Dayne. Prince Rhaegar. 

 

“Sit Jon,” Ned beckoned motioning to a chair with a pointed finger. “I feel that you have much to discuss with me.” 

 

Jon sat, sagging slightly into the chair with a relieved sigh. Ned gave him a curious look. “I was worried you’d think I’d gone mad like some members of my House,” Jon explained, still hesitant.

 

“Ah,” Ned intoned, suddenly understanding Jon’s earlier trepidation. Ned pulled open a drawer and put two cups and a sealed flagon of ale onto the desk. He poured them two portions and passed a cup to Jon. He took it gratefully and stared down into his cup, looking intently at it. 

 

“You say you’ve talked with your mother’s ghost,” Ned prompted, the idea still being fully digested in his mind. 

 

Jon nodded. “And other ghosts,” Jon tacked on. 

 

Ned raised a brow at him. “Who else?” 

 

Jon’s face scrunched. “Too many to name in a single day,” Jon remarked, surprising Ned. “The Ghosts of Winterfell, Bael the Bard or Syggerick of Skagos you may know him as, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon and his wife, most of House Targaryen, my mothers, father and sister,” Jon elaborated. 

 

For the brief moment of comprehension he just lost, Ned was not expecting such a lengthy list. He blinked and took a pull of his drink as he tried to decide which question to start with. “Mothers?” he asked noticing that Jon said it in plural. 

 

Jon nodded and a warm smile graced his lips. “I know it’s not heard of among First Men, but in the traditions of Valyria children refer to all of their father’s wives as ‘Mother’. Mother Elia loves me as much as Mother Lyanna and considers me her third child as Mother Lyanna considers Rhaenys and Aegon hers.” 

 

Ned stared at Jon with an open mouth, his drink held halfway up when he realized something. “When you were listing the ghosts you’ve talked to you mentioned your sister, but not your brother,” Ned stated. 

 

Jon grew nervous again. He took a pull from his drink as Ned looked at him in concern. Was he not treated well by Targaryen ghosts who favored his murdered brother?

 

“Egg,” Jon began, “I mean Aegon, he’s alive Uncle.” 

 

Ned nearly dropped his drink. “What?” he loudly asked. He was in the Red Keep after the Sacking. He saw the corpses wrapped in Lannister red cloaks to hide the blood. A woman, a child and a baby all horrendously murdered in cold blood.

 

Jon nervously sipped. “Before the Lannisters sacked the capital, Lord Varys swapped my brother with an orphaned babe and sent Aegon on a boat to Essos. He’s been living across the Narrow Sea under a false name ever since,” Jon explained, his gaze moving and staying to an empty space next to Ned’s right. 

 

Ned drank deeply as he soaked in the sudden revelation. This whole time, another innocent child was hidden away and living in secret in order to survive without being hunted down like prey. It made him ill to think that Tywin Lannister, the cause of such actions, still remains free from his crimes. 

 

He looked up and saw that Jon was still staring attentively to the empty space.  _ Not empty to his eyes _ , Ned realized. 

 

“Can you tell me who is standing next to me Jon?” Ned asked, suddenly nervous. Jon listed a lot of possible guests he couldn’t see. He jumped in his seat when he felt a sudden icy touch on his cheek. 

 

Jon was laughing freely at Ned. “Uncle Brandon,” he answered. “He says you haven’t jumped like that since he told you ice spiders laid eggs in your pillow.” 

 

Ned blinked and let his hand fall on his face. There was no doubt about this ghost business now. “Brandon,” he groaned, but not unkindly. It was strangely comforting to know that his wild brother still enjoyed toying with him. 

 

“He takes the piss out of everybody,” Jon said with a knowing grin. “He enjoys annoying my father a lot since you and Uncle Benjen can’t see him.” 

 

Ned looked up at Jon. “How often is Prince Rhaegar here in Winterfell?” he asked his nephew. 

 

“Father spends about half his time with me, half with Egg, er Aegon,” Jon explained. “When he isn’t with either of us he’ll probably be watching the court at the Red Keep with his friends.” 

 

“Can your brother see ghosts as well?” Ned asked, his brow furrowing. He’s never heard of anything like that being possible among Targaryens.

 

“He’s the only one I know of who can,” Jon said with a melancholic look. “We think it’s tied to our Valyrian heritage. Valyrian magic is forged from fire and blood, and the majority of the ghosts we see are kin or those sworn to our Houses. But that’s just a theory.” 

 

“We?” Ned intoned. “You communicate with Aegon?” Jon grimaced and looked down. 

 

“I can do more than see ghosts,” Jon admitted begrudgingly. Ned motioned for him to elaborate as he filled his cup again. “I have two types of dreams,” Jon began. 

 

“Dragon dreams?” Ned inquired. “Like Daenys the Dreamer is said to have had?” 

 

Jon nodded. “She did have those dreams, and other Targaryens before me as well,” he said. 

 

Ned was surprised how uneasy he felt with how readily Jon called himself a Targaryen. He was putting off telling Jon the truth, in part, because he didn’t want to rip apart the family he thought Jon believed he knew. 

 

“Those dreams of what is to come, those are dragon dreams and they’re never wrong,” Jon said as if he had explained this before. “I dreamt of the Greyjoy Rebellion.” Ned blinked at him in shock. “I saw krakens tearing at a proud lion’s port and burning it. A stag made of stone leading a fleet of ships. Young krakens lying dead in pools of salt and blood. You returned with a boy made of salt and seawater. I saw all this in a dream a year before the rebellion actually began.” 

 

Ned let out a shaky breath, and rubbed his beard uneasily at the admission. “Does your brother have,” he hesitated, “dragon dreams too?” 

 

Jon shook his head. “The only magic dreams he has are dreams where he meets me,” Jon said, finishing his drink. 

 

“Meets you?” Ned repeated in confusion. 

 

“For as long as I can remember there are dreams where Egg and I are in the same place,” Jon began. The boy leaned forward and held his empty cup with both hands. “Not a foretelling of anything, we simply meet and talk of what’s happening with our lives and our plans for the future.” Jon closed his eyes. “We find ourselves standing in a wood. It’s summer, the skies are blue, the leaves an emerald green and in the center of the place is a Heart tree.” 

 

“Do you always meet in front a Heart tree?” Ned wondered. 

 

Jon opened his eyes. “Yes,” he affirmed. “It’s always the same place, the same Heart tree. We don’t know how or why but the Old Gods gave us a place to be brothers, and we’re forever grateful to them for it.” 

 

Ned sipped his drink before asking his next question. “When was the last time you met with Aegon?” 

 

“Two days ago,” he admitted. He looked pensive. "He doesn't know that I'm telling you all of this. He won't like that I did so without telling him before hand." 

 

Jon suddenly turned in his seat and swiveled his head, trailing another ghost only he could see. To Ned’s shock Jon’s words were not spoken in the Common Tongue. The words were of harsh, clanging syllables and Jon’s words sounded like broken silver. He gestured at Ned and continued the conversation. 

 

Jon turned towards him, his face sheepish. “Sorry,” he apologized. 

 

“What language was that?” Ned asked with a raised brow. “It didn’t sound like Valyrian.” 

 

“Old Tongue,” Jon simply stated with a shrug. “I learned from Torrhen Stark when I was small. It’s useful when talking to the older ghosts, since they don’t know the Common Tongue.” 

 

Ned felt his jaw swing open. “The King Who Knelt,” he breathed. “Was that who you were talking to?” 

 

“King Jon Stark,” Jon corrected. “He knows some Common, but refuses to speak a word of it since it’s the language of the Andals who took the Wolf’s Den before the Hungry Wolf took it back.”

 

It was tense in the solar, the air thick with sudden truths that Ned was struggling to wrap his mind around. He emptied his cup before speaking again.

 

“Why are you sharing all this with me now?” Ned gravely asked. “You’ve held these secrets for years, why now?” 

 

Jon looked nervous, and he swallowed thickly before answering. “The Kings of Winter, previous Lords of Winterfell, your father, they want me to help you learn secrets of Winterfell that have been lost,” he spoke, staring deep into Ned’s grey eyes. “Much has been lost and forgotten. This is the chance to relearn it.” 

 

“Why me?” Ned asked. “I’m a man going grey. I won’t learn as quick as I used to.” 

 

“You’re the Stark of Winterfell,” Jon declared. “There are things only the Stark who holds Winterfell can know. Duties only the Stark of Winterfell can complete.” 

 

The way Jon spoke was not a complacent explanation. There was a force, a desperation to his words, and implications of something greatly important that he thinks Ned should do. 

 

“Do the ghosts have a place where they want me to start?” he asked, suddenly feeling wary.

 

Jon gave him a crooked grin. “Grandfather said that the bottom drawer has a false bottom you need to pry open. He has important items he wants you to look at.”

 

Ned was quick to open the drawer again. He grabbed a pen knife and placed it at the corner. And to his surprise the wood lifted revealing a hidden compartment. He set the small knife down and pulled out the contents. 

 

There were several leather wallets containing documents. Trinkets including a necklace he thought belonged to his mother, and at the bottom was a book. The leather binding was cracking with age, the vellum pages felt soft on his thumb as he opened it. 

 

The first page held three sections, each holding two lines. The top was written in the runes of the First Men, sharp lines and angles. The second was right below it, the letters were those of the Common Tongue but the words were strange. The third was readable to him. 

 

The Hidden Protest of The Last King in the North

Written by Brandon Snow

 

Ned nearly let the ancient tome slip through his calloused fingers. “Gods be good,” he breathed, staring at the page in amazement. The book was nearly three hundred years old, written by the brother of the King Who Knelt, and in his desk all this time. 

 

He managed to tear his eyes away from the line and looked at the upper sections. Then he looked at Jon, who was staring curiously at him. 

 

“You speak the Old Tongue,” Ned spoke, “Can you read runes?” 

 

“I can,” Jon confirmed. 

 

He motioned for Jon to step next to him. When he did he showed the boy the page. “It all says the same thing: ‘The Hidden Protest of The Last King in the North written by Brandon Snow.’” Jon declared. 

 

Jon pointed at the top section, finger not touching the page. “This is how it’s written in runes,” then he pointed to the middle section. “This is how you say it in the Old Tongue.” 

 

Ned looked down at the page. “Why would he write it three times in three different ways?” he asked himself. 

 

Jon looked sheepish and answered. “That would be because of my ancestor, Aegon the Conqueror.” 

 

Ned gave him a look. 

 

“It was a caveat when the North bent the knee,” Jon elaborated. “A unified kingdom meant a single, shared language. High Valyrian is used by Targaryens as a secret language since many are not fluent in it, and the only other language they knew fluently was the Common Tongue. So the use of the Old Tongue was banned, and why today no First Man this side of the Wall knows the Old Tongue, save perhaps in a few secret places.” 

 

Ned gaped. How much untold history does Jon know of? 

 

“So the hidden protest,” Ned mused, turning back to the page, “would be the use of it to write this book.” 

 

“Probably,” Jon agreed. "I was never told what was in this book." At the questioning look he gave Jon replied. “I may have been taught many things by the ghosts Uncle, but my name is not Stark and I do not hold Winterfell. There are secrets only you can learn, for they will only tell the secrets to you.”

“How is that going to be possible,” Ned questioned, “if you’re the only one who can see and hear them?” 

 

Jon looked grave before hesitantly speaking. “I spent the last two days with some of the oldest ghosts roaming Winterfell.” He looked Ned in the eye, his gaze pleading. “And she has a way of speaking to you.” 

 

“Who is she?” Ned asked.

 

“Bran the Builder’s wife.” 


	10. Aegon II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aegon has several conversations on his way to Volantis

Egg was staring out at the sea. He was watching the crests of blue-green waves, and tasting the salt in the wind that propelled the ship. The warmth of the sun on his olive skin made him feel sleepy and was tempted to nap out on the deck.

 

He was pulled out of his drowsiness by feeling the hand of a chilled on his shoulder. He turned and saw Mother Lyanna giving him a warm smile.

 

“Hello Mother,” he greeted in a hush, his lips curling into a soft smile. She stood next to him and stared out at the sea. For years, starting back when he was knee high to her, they made a habit of staring out at the water together. He stood taller than her now, but they still take time to watch the waves and sky. They saw dawns and dusks, calm waters and unforgiving waves together, remarking how the sea is always new and changing.

 

She turned to look at him, the wind not moving a strand of wild Stark brown hair. She gave him a wolfish smile that made her eyes sparkle like the sun on the cresting waves.

 

Usually they turn and face the west, each making a game of trying to see landmarks and islands of Westeros. Dragonstone was usually a favorite target, but Egg loved to see as much of Westeros as possible. At best they saw specks on the horizon, but it always excited Egg to see anything of the the Seven Kingdoms.

 

Today Egg faced Essos, a faint tug in the back of his mind telling him to face the east.

 

“When do you expect to get a horse?” she eagerly asked.

 

“We plan to make port in Volantis,” he answered in the same hush. “Hopefully I’ll have time to go riding.” With their constant travelling, it was hard to have a horse, but he learned to ride on various steeds throughout the years.

 

“We’ll make time,” Mother Lyanna assured him. She always made sure they spent some time on a saddle when they were on land together. “After all, you’re the one that wanted to be able to out-ride a Dothraki screamer,” she remarked in a motherly teasing manner.

 

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Must you remind me?” he groaned, embarrassed. He was seven when he said that, for gods’ sake.

 

She barked a good natured laugh, and patted his cheek. “We’ve all had dreams like that. Your’s and Jae’s are cute,” she noted with a flashing grin and bright grey eyes.

 

He put his hand to his face. He’s not supposed to be cute, he’s the head of a powerful House. Dashing, awe inspiring, yes. Not cute.

 

“Your brother used to wish he could be a builder,” she reminisced in a motherly sigh. “And at some point you--”

 

“Is Jae alright?” he aske, briskly changing the subject.

 

“He skipped midday meal, and beat Robb at sword practice,” she reported. “Other than that, he’s doing well.”

 

He let out a relieved sigh.

 

They stood on side by side, staring out at the lands of Essos. Egg gave himself a wan smile. _Ironic,_ he thought. _I am constantly moving, and Jae rarely leaves Winterfell. And yet we’re bonded in ways brothers raised together never could be._

 

His septa was walking across the deck. She greeted him warmly and he returned it in kind before it evolved into an amiable conversation.

 

He found himself looking more and more towards the land hoping to catch a glimpse of the Rhoyne. He closed his eyes and imagines the clean taste of the freshwater of the river.

 

 _Where my ancestors fought each other._ He grimaces as the thought unwantedly flared in his mind.

 

Mother Lyanna asks what’s wrong, but he doesn’t answer her. The septa excuses herself and turns to leave for her cabin. He kept silent and just stared out to where he could almost feel the River Rhoyne ebbing along its banks.

 

He knows his mothers and father love him, but they don’t know what it’s like to be reminded that your ancestors warred with one another. Jae understands, he knows what it’s like to be a child of feuding peoples. He knows that there are times when Aegon feels conflict and guilt within himself. When the blood and fire of Valyria clash with the waters of the Rhoyne, and that internal war weighs him down.

 

“Mother,” he whispered as his septa was walking away. She looked at him keenly. “Will you teach me how to win a tilt?”

 

She snorted and a grin lit up her long face.  

 

Egg mirrored her wide grin. They both know that Northerners view tourneys less favorably than their Southron counterparts, thinking it a waste of time and coin. “I’ll bear a shield with a Laughing Tree,” he added.

 

She snorted and gave him a playful slap on the arm. “Be creative Egg,” she chided with a chuckle. “That’s mine.”

 

“Can I inherit your knightly name?” He asked. “Imagine it. Ser Aegon the Knight of the Laughing Tree,” he mockingly declared, standing rigid as if announcing himself to a court then and there.

 

She laughed heartily and loudly with her head thrown back. “Save a Crannogman and unsaddle three knights,” she stated with laughter in her words, “then I’ll knight you myself.”

 

He chuckled with her, as they stood comfortably together watching the moving seascape.

 

He went about the rest of his day. He finished his last lesson with Jon Connington about Westeros by midday. Egg bit his tongue at the bitterness Connington plainly showed when talking about the North, particularly House Stark. Mother Lyanna was coldly glaring at his foster father and bellowing when the man insulted her house and her brother. He clenched his fists and gritted his teeth, knowing damn well the Mad King gave the Starks more than enough reason to rebel against the throne.

 

When he was done Egg escaped to his room. Inside there were two ghosts of men waiting for him. One was of average height, with a shiny bald head and the same dark purple eyes as Jae, and Rhaenys. At his side was an incredibly tall, hulking knight with keen eyes dressed all in white.

 

Ser Duncan the Tall, and Aegon the Unlikely.

 

He greeted them politely and took a seat in a spare chair opposite of them. Mother Lyanna greeted them with the respect of a Northwomen, not curtseying with florid words like an Andal lady but kneeling like all Northerners do.

 

“Hello Young Egg,” King Aegon greeted in a grandfatherly kindness.  “Great-granddaughter,” he addressed Egg’s Northen mother with a motion for her to rise. He gave the same greeting to Mother Elia when she spent time on the _Shy Maid_. Mother Lyanna took her leave, with a promise to go horse racing with Egg when they land in Volantis.

 

“Sounds like Connington is trying to get you ready,” Ser Duncan remarked blandly.

 

“But he was never a king,” Aegon the Unlikely pointed out.  “I know of your plans for the Seven kingdoms Young Egg given our discussion days ago,” the bald king plainly stated. “And I won’t deter you from them. But I would feel better imparting some knowledge I gained.”

 

Egg nodded and eagerly looked at each man.

 

“Something you must always be aware of is the ripples caused by actions,” the King began. “For example the Rebellion will have lingering problems that affect all sides in the bid for the throne. Look to each kingdom. How many will come to the Baratheons?”

 

“The Stormlands and the Westerlands are almost guaranteed to be his,” Egg answered quickly, holding up two fingers. “The Vale will likely join him, the Hand is an Arryn who fostered him,” he counted a third finger.

 

“What of the Crownlands?” the king prompted.

 

Egg thought mulled it over. “They’re too close to him, and his brother holds Dragonstone,” he began. “But those of Valyrian descent are not held in high regards by the Usurper, ignored at best and discriminated against at worst.”

 

“Which Houses make up the bulk of the Crownlands’ fleet?” the King asked.

 

Egg blinked, as a realization hit him. “Celtigar and Velaryon,” he answered promptly.

 

The king nodded. “See,” the king prompted. “Actions have consequences. The Baratheon’s attitude to the Celtigars and Velaryons will possibly cost him a fleet you may be able to obtain.”

 

Their conversation went on about more intricate factors that could change the tide this way and that concerning each of the Seven Kingdoms. By the time they finished it was dark, and Egg was in no mood to eat supper.

 

When the ghosts let him be, he sprawled onto his bed and uneasily drifted into a dream.

* * *

 

He was in the summer wood and was standing before the unchanging Heart tree. Jae was next to him, his face ashen.

 

 _“Valonqar?”_ Egg asked, worry clouding his tone. “What’s wrong?”

 

Jae swallowed and turned his dark eyes up at Egg. “Brother,” Jae began, his tone hesitant. “Something is happening in Westeros.”

 

Egg cursed and asked what was going on. “Bran the Builder woke from his crypt days ago,” Jae said. “And he says that the Long Night is coming.”

 

Egg blinked at his grim faced brother. “I thought that was a legend of the North,” he wound up saying with a half hearted grin.

 

“Didn’t the Rhoynar speak of a night that froze the River Rhoyne? Is that not the Long Night in Essos?” Jae queried.

 

Egg froze. Mother Elia had whispered the story to him and Jae when they were young boys being tucked into their beds.

 

_“A long time ago a darkness fell in Essos,” she had whispered, her soft voice and Dornish lilt very soothing. “The River of the Mother Rhoyne dried up and froze as far south as possible. The riverbed dried and despair continued as the Mother Rhoyne’s sons, the Crab King and the Old Man of the River worsened their eternal feud until a hero came. He beseeched each of the lesser gods to put aside their feud, and convinced them to join in a secret song that brought back the day.”_

 

“Aye,” Egg agreed, with a jerk of his head. “And there are other legends of a similar nature.”

One legend the brothers do not speak of is the legend tied to the prophecy of The Prince Who Was Promised who would come back to bring back the light when darkness...

 

Egg felt his jaw go slack.  _How can different peoples from different parts of the known world have stories with the same cold night and it not be a true event?_

 

 “Gods be good,” he breathed. Jae nodded his dark head at him.

 

Jae grabbed his arm and held his gaze. “There is more at stake than our House Egg,” Jae declared. “When the Long Night came, more than darkness plagued Westeros.”

 

“The Others,” Egg plainly stated with a grimace, fear curling in his gut.

 

Jae lowered his gaze. “We should have realized something was amiss. So many ghosts of long dead ages waking. Talks of magic and legends,” he mirthlessly remarked with a bitter smile. Jae’s eyes went down and his mouth hesitated to answer. “I need to tell Lord Stark about what’s to come,” he responded in a forlorn manner.

 

“Have you lost your sense?” Egg snapped. “He won’t believe what you say!”

 

“I already told him the truth about us,” his younger brother admitted. “He believed me on that.”

 

“Why would you do that!?” he bellowed. “We agreed time and time again that it was too reckless! How could you be so rash!?”

 

Jae looked at him, and glared. “What else am I supposed to do Egg!?” he snapped, an angry dragon growling. “I’m one person! Everyone believes I’m a bastard, I can’t bring the forces needed to fight back the Others on my own!”

 

Egg felt his own dragon wake and burn at the snarling of his brother. “I’ll build an army and take the throne!” he growled to Jae. “An army that will fight the Others!”

 

“How long will that take!?” Jae demanded. “If the Long Night is coming soon we need armies and supplies as soon as possible, not a civil war!”

 

The two brothers glared and growled, grappling with each other as their tempers burned. Both stood nose to nose, hands full of each other’s clothes and breathing heavy when their dragon tempers ran their course. Both brothers stood there as they caught their breathes.

 

Jae lowered his head on Egg’s chest. “I had to try Egg,” he murmured in melancholy. “I can’t fight the army of the dead on my own.”

 

Egg patted his brother’s black curls, like he did when they were knee high boys. “You’re right,” he begrudgingly admitted, his temper ebbing away. “If a war of monsters and legends comes, the North needs to be ready.”

 

An idea sparked. “Maybe I can find help for Lord Stark here in Essos,” he mused. “Or at the very least I can use some funds from the Iron Bank to help the North prepare.”

 

The only thing Egg will praise the Mad King on, and never aloud, was creating numerous savings held solely by House Targaryen in his massive paranoia. While the Crown is in debt, numerous Targaryen accounts have been gaining interest over the years.

 

Egg slipped away from Connington into the bank during his last stay in Braavos, and he managed to get a look at the accounts during his meeting. He was still shaken by how the Iron Bank knew about him and Jae. Jae was more explainable since father made trusts and accounts for his third child and second wife in their names, but he still had no idea how they knew Egg wasn’t really dead. He was honestly a bit scared of knowing given the Iron Bank’s reputation and the plethora of Faceless Men in Braavos.  

 

He learned in that meeting that he had vast caches of gold coins to use, plus extra funds from accounts and trusts he held. He was going to save up some more coins for his war against the Usurper, but he can start giving to House Stark when he next enters Braavos. _I can start with Mother Lyanna’s overdue bridal price,_ Egg decided _plus extra since it was delayed so long._

 

Jae thought about it and nodded. “We can try that for now,” he said, his voice lighter and his stance more lax. _Seems like Jae will use his funds too for the coming winter,_ Egg silently noted _._ “And we can try to get you to Winterfell so you can help him in person and gain his support when the time comes.”

 

Egg smiled, knowing his brother wanted him back in Westeros. And for a brief moment, their worries melted away like snow in sunlight as they stood in their summer wood.

 


	11. Robb II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb learns something

Robb was woken from his sleep by a heavy knock at his door. He grumbled as he rose. The door opened and his father was standing at the doorway with a lit brand. Robb jumped to attention. “Wake up Robb,” he said. “There’s something I need to show you.” Robb nodded and hurried to throw his shirt and boots on. As he rushed his lacings he noticed how dark it was outside.  _ It’s must be far from sunrise.  _

 

He stepped out of his room and stood before his father. Robb belatedly noticed the dark rings under his eyes in the torchlight as they began to walk the halls. Everyone in Winterfell has noticed how Father has been cooped up in his solar for several days now. And everyone in Winterfell knew that only Jon was with him. 

 

His mother was far from happy about that. She had tried asking Father on several occasions, saying it was unseemly and that Robb should be with him instead. But Father remained tight lipped about what he was doing with Jon. 

 

Robb had asked Jon about it, but was told he would know when Father wanted him to. Arya was met with the same answer. Bran too. The three Starks had even gotten Rickon to ask with big puppy eyes since Jon is very sweet with their youngest sibling. Instead Jon changed the conversation and played wolves and sheep with the toddler. 

 

“I know you’ve been curious about what I’ve been doing,” Father said, shocking Robb out of his thoughts. They stood outside of the solar. “I’m going to tell you, but Robb you must swear to keep silent about what you learn.” His father’s words were firm and grave. 

 

“I swear,” Robb promised. 

 

“By the Old Gods, do you swear?” Father implored. 

 

“I swear by the Old Gods and the New,” Robb confirmed, alert and dread coiling in his gut. 

 

Father nodded and opened the door. They stepped into the solar silently as Robb’s mind whirled with possibilities on what Father was doing.

 

The neatly organized desk was buried under books and scrolls weighed down by odd trinkets, not a single candle near the papers. There were candles lit in the overhead candelabra and on various shelves. The hearth was lit to show more light since the moon shone its first new sliver tonight.

 

His father moved to his usual spot and Jon was slumped in a chair, his massive cat hissing at Robb from his lap. Robb blinked at Jon in shock. Father nodded and gestured for him to sit in the chair next to Jon. He did so, but when he looked at his brother he saw that he slept. Robb stared at im in shock, and Balerion swiped a large paw at him. 

 

Father was looking at Robb, and ran a hand along his beard in deep thought before speaking. “There is much you need to know Robb,” he stated. 

 

“Father?” Robb asked, looking at him in confusion. The uneasy churning in Robb’s gut worsened as he looked back at their father. 

 

Father gestured to the mess atop his desk. “All of these were unknown to me,” he said grimly, his long face tight “until a few days ago.” 

 

Robb blinked at him, his mouth swung open. There were stacks and stacks of writings, how could Father not know of them. 

 

“Where were they?” he curiously asked, stepping to look at the mounds. They looked old and the writing was faded. He grabbed a yellowed scroll with a broken seal to examine with a mindful hand. 

 

“Hidden in caches within this room,” Father explained wearily, moving to pick up a small red leather book. 

 

Robb snapped his head up from the curled scroll. “How can so much be hidden here?” he blurted out. 

 

“The Starks who used this room had many hidden caches,” Father said, thumbing through the book he held. “There were hidden compartments in the desk and bookshelves. Boxes and tubes hidden in the walls, under the floor.” 

 

Robb looked about the room in shock in open mouthed shock, the scroll in his hand forgotten. “Why would they hide so much?” he asked looking back at the desk. “This much writing could fill at least an entire bookshelf in the library. Why hide it?” 

 

“Many reasons. Depends on what conflicts they faced and anticipated,” Father explained, casting a brief glance at Jon. “Some were hidden to be seen by the Stark who holds Winterfell and his heir only. Some hidden because they would be destroyed since the Conqueror banned the use of the Old Tongue. Many Starks of old mistrusted the maesters and were concerned that they had their own agenda to make the North southron.” 

 

Robb’s mind was whirring until it came to a stop. “The Starks used the Old Tongue at the time of the Conquest?” he asked.  What he briefly learned of the Old Tongue was what Maester Luwin told him, that all that’s left of the First Men’s history before the Andals arrived were unreadable runes on stone. He thought it fell out of use ages ago. 

 

“Aye,” Father said with a grim nod. “Look at that scroll,” he said with a pointing finger at the one Robb held. Robb unfurled the yellow paper. He squinted and saw lines of harsh angled runes written in a now faint ink in the glow of the flames. At the bottom was faint ink mark that looked like the snarling direwolf sigil. 

 

“That was written by Torrhen Stark telling his heir that he bent the knee to Aegon the Conqueror.” Robb went rigid and held his breath. He felt faint.  _ The last King in the North wrote this. _ He looked up at his Father in amazement. 

 

“You read this?” he whispered, afraid that loud noise will spoil the scroll in his hands. “Do you know the Old Tongue, Father?”  _ Will you teach me and Jon it, as we are your sons?  _ He silently wondered.  _ Have you started teaching Jon? _

 

To his disbelief, Father shook his head. “I can’t even write my name in runes,” he elaborated. Then Father looked nervous, casting a brief glance to Jon again. “But Jon is fluent in the Old Tongue. He’s been at my side for several days now helping me read these.”

 

Robb whipped his head to his brother and saw an angry pair of green eyes glaring at him. Balerion narrowed his eyes at Robb, tail flicking.  “Who taught him?” Robb quickly asked turning away from his sleeping brother. 

 

Father’s face grew grim before a sharp intake of air. “The Ghosts of Winterfell,” he hesitantly answered.

 

Robb blinked. “What?” he blurted, his mind numb. 

 

Father nodded, a harried expression on his face. “Jon has been able to see the ghosts that haunt Winterfell. They passed knowledge onto him that we Starks have forgotten. He’s been helping me with this,” he explained, waving an arm to the stacks of writings. 

 

Robb looked to Jon in shock, and gave himself a hard pinch. It hurt and he was still there. His blue eyes painted with wonder as he gazed at his sleeping brother.  _ You really are a Stark, despite your name brother, _ Robb silently praised. 

 

Robb was pulled out of his musings by Jon’s sudden groaning. Balerion jumped to the floor and moved protectively to Jon’s boots. Jon blearily groaned as he rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. He blinked, slowly waking up.

 

Robb moved closer to Jon, ignoring the angry cat narrowing its eyes at him. “Are you well Jon?” Robb asked, very concerned.  Jon was still somewhat asleep.

 

“A mocking bird will whisper in a fish’s ear. She’ll poison the old falcon with tears,” Jon murmured, his brow furrowed.

 

_ He must be half asleep still,  _ Robb figured.  _ What an odd dream he must have had.  _ From the corner of his eye he saw their father grow pale as he stared at Jon. Robb looked at Father in confusion. 

 

Jon groaned again and cracked his eyes open. Jon yawned and stretched. He blinked up at Robb, before his eyes grew alert and his face slack with shock. He sat rigid in his seat and Balerion swiped at Robb’s ankle.

 

“Are you well Jon?” Robb asked again, trying to outstep that damned cat to little success. “You were talking about a strange dream of birds and a fish.” 

 

“You heard that?” his brother gasped, eyes darting between him and their father. 

 

“Was that--” Father’s question trailed off, looking intently at Jon. Jon jerked his head in a hesitant nod. Father’s face fell, looking sad and troubled. 

 

“What was what?” Robb asked, looking between the two. 

 

“Seems you do have to tell Robb about it,” Father said to Jon. Jon’s shoulders sagged as he picked Balerian up. 

 

“Tell me what?” he pressed. 

 

“Who I really am,” Jon replied with as he stroked Balerion’s furry head. He gulped, and worked his mouth silently for a moment. “I’m not a Stark, Robb,” he finally said.

 

Robb’s face went from surprised to angry in a blink. “Horseshit,” he snarled, hackles rising. He strode over to Jon and grabbed his shoulders. Balerion bit and clawed at his arm, but Robb didn’t pay any attention to it. “You’re Father’s son as much as I am. You’re a Stark in all but name.” 

 

Jon looked at him with wide eyes. “No I’m not,” Jon breathed. 

 

“Yes you are,” Robb argued, but Jon shook his head. Robb tightened his grip on his brother, trying to anchor him to what he knew was true. Anyone with working eyes can see the Stark in Jon, seven hells Jon looks more like a Stark than him. “The same Stark blood runs through your veins as it does in mine,” Robb insisted. 

 

“I may have Stark blood,” Jon retorted “but it’s not the same as yours.” 

 

“Jon that’s non-”

 

“My name isn’t Jon Snow,” he continued. His gaze was unyielding, nailing him to the spot. “My name is Jaehaerys Targaryen.” 

 

Robb went numb, his grip slack. He staggered back, staring at Jon. “Targaryen?” he gasped. “How can you be a Targaryen?” Robb asked, focusing on Jon’s face. His hair is dark and curly.  _ But Father’s and Arya’s are brown.  _  His face is long. _ But his features make him as pretty as a girl, something no one says about other Starks. _ And in the glow of the lit hearth, he saw the flecks of violet in those orbs he’s known from the cradle. And rather than curiosity or amazement, the color made him uneasy. 

 

“Everything you know about Prince Rhaegar and your Aunt Lyanna is a lie, Robb,” Father finally said in a low tone as Jon guided Robb to sit down. 

 

Jon gulped and lowered his eyes. “They married on the Isle of Faces,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. 

 

“Married?” Robb repeated in disbelief.  _ But he was already-- Targaryens once practiced polygamy,  _ he realized _.  _  He looked at Father. He nodded his head solemnly. Robb gapped like a fish out of water, looking at Jon with wide eyes. 

 

Jon looked at him, his mouth set to a thin line. “She didn’t want to marry Robert Baratheon. And my father” Robb and Father both flinched “was under pressure from the Mad King to find a second wife,” he explained. 

 

“He was?” Robb asked, the nervous knot rolling about his stomach. “Why?” 

 

“The dragon must have three heads,” Jon answered, the words heavy and foreboding. It sent a shiver down Robb’s spine. “Princess Elia wasn’t able to have a third child, the maesters said her health was too frail. So the Mad King told his son to find a second wife, or else.” 

 

Robb went pale. “Surely he wouldn’t threaten his own son’s life,” He tried to reason. 

 

“He beat and raped his sister-wife, my grandmother, after burning innocent people with wildfire,” Jon spat, the proclamation making Robb’s skin crawl and his stomach queasy. “Does he sound like a man who cares for his family?” 

 

Father looked at Jon in shock. “Was he truly that depraved?” the Lord of Winterfell asked in shock and disgust. 

 

“Worse than you’d care to know,” Jon bit out sharply. “Trust me on this, he well earned that sword in his back.” 

 

Robb stared at Jon in shock. Jon has gotten mad at Theon over the years, but the venom he spoke with was alien to Robb.  _ But the man was mad and monstrous _ he reasoned.  _ I’d be wroth too if he were my other grandfather.  _ And Robb suddenly felt terrible.  _ One grandfather killing another as well as their uncle, I can’t imagine what Jon must feel when the Mad King is mentioned. _

 

Robb looked at their Father. He saw anger on his long bearded face, and the conflict war in his eyes.  _ Aerys deserved death, but the Kingslayer broke his vows to do so.  _ Robb understood his father’s stance. The Mad King was a monster, but Father holds honor as the highest of virtues.  _ The madman should have been tried and hanged honorably,  _ Robb thought.  _ That would have given Grandfather and Uncle Brandon justice. _

 

“He threatened that if my father failed in begetting a third child, he’d be replaced with Viserys,” Jon continued. “And it wouldn’t be only him who met a convenient death. He had no love for Princess Elia and didn’t take well to my sister.”

 

It was tense as Robb and Father digested Jon’s words. 

 

“So Prince Rhaegar had to find a second wife and he chose Aunt Lyanna?” Robb asked slowly as the wheels turned the information around in his head. Jon nodded. “And they married on the Isle of Faces?” Again Jon nodded.  

 

“Which makes you their trueborn son,” Robb deduced, words hollow. Robb lowered his eyes to his balled fists.  He swayed like the floor gave way, as if a load bearing pillar had crumbled beneath him. For as long as Robb could remember, Jon was always with him. Robb and Jon crawled together, walked, played and trained at each other’s side. Robb dreamed that Jon would be at his side when he ruled Winterfell. 

 

“Robb?” Jon--no Jaehaerys called out, voice colored with concern. Robb felt a slender hand on his back, gently resting on a shoulder blade. He felt his father’s heavier one on his shoulder. He didn’t move an inch. 

 

“When did Father tell you this?” he asked in a low voice. The air was silent. He looked up and saw Jon-- Jaehaerys’s nervous expression. “When?” he beseeched. 

 

“I’ve always known.” 

 

The words rang in Robb’s ears. He jumped at the brother he thought he knew and pinned him to the chair. Robb glared down at him. “Why didn’t you tell me!?” he demanded, snarling viciously as his temper peaked. “Why didn’t you!?” he asked his father.

 

“Robb quiet down,” Jon-Jaehaerys hissed. Balerion yowled and lept at Robb’s hands. The cat bit and clawed at Robb’s hands, snarling at him as blood was drawn. Robb growled and kept an unceasing grip of his brother’s -- cousin’s-- shirt. 

 

“It was too dangerous!” was the hushed shout from their-  _ his _ father. Jaehaerys-Jon tried to escape Robb’s looming form. “If the wrong people learned about it it would lead to death.” 

 

“So you didn’t trust me?” he asked hotly, downright offended and his anger growing.  _ The pack stays together _ a faint part of his mind supplied. “Neither of you trusted me with the truth?” 

 

“Too many people died because of me, Robb!” Jo--Jaehaerys snapped, glaring up at Robb with an unfamiliar ferocity.  “If it was learned that you knew, the Usurper would demand your head as well as mine!” 

 

Robb’s temper dissipated as he stared down at his brother.  _ Cousin _ he corrected his mind. His cousin was glaring at him, but his eyes glistened and his full lips thinned. That made Robb pause and giving his mind a chance to work. 

 

_ If the truth came out the rest of us could plead ignorance.  _ Blue eyes went to rest on Father.  _ You bore the secret alone to spare the rest of us.  _

 

It was tense and silent as Robb’s realizations drowned his thoughts. Robb moved his eyes from Father to Jon --  _ Jaehaerys, Jaehaerys -- _ before squeezing them shut in concentration as he absorbed all this information. It felt like an age, and Robb doubted he could truly come to grips with it.  _  I’m not sure I really want to. Then I truly will lose Jon.  _

 

It was all too much. Robb lowered his head and covered his eyes with his stinging, bleeding fists.  _  I thought I knew you best.  _ He grit his teeth hard.  _ All my life you’ve been beside me, and I never even knew your name. _

 

Robb finally opened his eyes, feeling the nervous churning come back with a vengeance. Jon-- Jaehaerys held his hand as if it were a baby bird. “I’m sorry,” he softly spoke. “I wanted to tell you, but I was always told that doing so would put you in danger.” 

 

“It’s alright Jo-- Jaehaerys,” he said stumbling over the name. He looked at his… his cousin sheepishly. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I-I’m so used to you as Jon.” 

 

“I’m still the same person Robb,” he pleaded, grabbing the sides of Robb’s face. Blue eyes were captivated by the dark purple, and Robb wanted to both look away and keep looking.  “I’m still the boy you grew up with, because I’ve always been myself. We are family, Stark blood runs through my veins as it does in yours. My blood can’t change our history together here in Winterfell. That’s a bond that can never be changed. You knowing my lineage doesn’t turn me into a whole new person.” 

 

He gave a weak smile. “I’m not sure I can get used to calling you… Jaehaerys,” Robb admitted, managing to look to the side.

 

It was silent for a moment, and Robb looked back at those eyes. The flickering firelight made them look shiny and wet. 

 

“Then call me Jon like you always have,” was the quiet response he got. Jon moved his hands off of Robb’s face and went to calm the spitting cat.

 

“What now?” Robb sullenly asked. “What do we do now?” 

 

“I want you to learn alongside me,” Father simply said. He stepped towards Robb and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I should have passed this onto you as the Starks of old did,” he gestured to the mountain of writings “but I could not,” Father continued, gray eyes locked with Robb’s blue. “I want you to be more prepared than I was, so you will learn the secrets of Winterfell with me.” 

 

Robb’s eyes glistened as he gazed at his father. “I won’t let you down Father,” he declared. “When do we start?” he asked, eager for the change in conversation. 

 

“Tonight in the Crypts,” Jon stated, he stood with the cat cradled in his arms. Balerian in turn shifted to lick Jon’s cheek. “When the moon begins to climb you’ll meet her.”

 

“Her?” Robb asked, puzzled. 

 

“Bran the Builder’s wife,” Father clarified, shocking Robb again. “Jon says she has a way for us to commune with the ghosts.” He turned to look at Jon. “Isn’t tonight too soon? It hasn’t even been a week since I learned, and Robb is just now aware of the ghosts you see.” 

 

_ Somehow I’d forgotten that,  _ Robb thought sheepishly.

 

“If you don’t go tonight you’ll have to wait a full moon’s turn to try again,” Jon warned. “And there are matters you must know of now. Patience is a luxury that can’t be afforded.” As he turned his head to an empty part of the room and nodded at nothing; Robb and his father shared a worried glance between them. Jon carefully moved a pile of scrolls and picked up a necklace. He held the jewelry out to their father. “You’ll need this,” Jon stated. 

 

Father looked at the necklace with a raised brow. “Why would we need my mother’s necklace?” he asked, taking the object. 

 

“I can’t say,” Jon answered. “I wasn’t told why, only that you need it.” 

 

Father looked at Robb, who nodded with his face set in a grim determination. He pocketed the necklace. “To the Crypts,” he said. 


	12. Ned III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned and Robb meet somebody

Ned and the boys were marching towards the crypts. Each of them carried a lit brand, for the first sliver of the moon offered them no light. The air was cooler and brisk, but Ned paid it no mind.

 

His mind occupied by the dream Jon had. Jon said it was a dragon dream, and dread coiled in his gut. What worries him is that his nephew said that his foster father was going to be poisoned.The old falcon can only allude to Jon Arryn, and the only she-fish close to him would be his wife Lysa, Cat’s sister. And unless he’s mistaken Lord Baelish’s personal sigil is a mockingbird. But the man is a Vale bannerman, and a childhood friend of the Tully siblings, why would he convince Cat’s sister to poison her husband?

 

He never took much stock in portents before, but if his nephew could see ghosts why would he lie about dragon dreams? _“They’re never wrong,”_ he had said to him about the dragon dreams. _But there must be a way to help,_ Ned thought. _I could send a warning to Jon down south._ But a more realistic part of his mind asked how was he to convince Jon his words were true. Jon Arryn is very practical, and wouldn’t take Ned seriously if he said that his supposed bastard has a gift of foretelling. It was starting to frustrate him, not knowing how to warn the man who went to war with him about an attempt on his life.

 

The guards at the outer wall of Winterfell were not placed near the crypts, but Ned still shifted his eyes as he walked in search for roaming people.  Having come across no one, the three made it closer to the crypts.

 

Ned’s thoughts shifted to what was happening now as they neared the entrance. _What is going to happen? There is no word of Bran the Builder’s wife that I’ve ever heard of. Obviously he had one, but never once has she been so much as mentioned in the legends of Winterfell. Who was she? What can her ghost do?_

 

As Robb was about to step inside, a shadow sprinted by his feet. Robb stumbled back, hand over his heart as he looked fearful. Ned steadied his heir when he heard the shadow meow.

 

Jon placed the brand in a torch holder attached to the wall. “Balerion,” Jon chidded, not seeing Robb’s incredulous expression as he picked the massive cat up. The cat narrowed his eyes at them with what Ned thought was the haughtiest look he’d ever seen on a cat.

 

“Jon your cat hates me,” Robb complained. Said cat gave a low grumble, seeming to ignore Robb in favor of Jon’s petting. _At least somethings never change,_ Ned mused.

 

“He’s not my cat,” Jon countered, gently cradling the unfriendly cat. “He’s my sister’s.”

 

Ned blinked at the large cat, as Robb looked confused. Ned knew the story that Princess Rhaenys had a little black kitten as her pet before her murder. But he never thought this Balerion and that one were the same cat. _I thought it was a coincidence that the name was the same, but really I should have seen the clue to Jon’s abilities long ago._

 

He remembers when he was back in Kings Landing with a baby Jon on their way north. Wylla had tried shooing the angry black kitten away, but the little thing was determined to be with Jon. The kitten bit and scratched at whoever tried to come near the baby, and the cat always found its way to Jon no matter what they did to keep the cat out. A pattern that never changed even now in Winterfell. _Did his sister’s ghost have a hand in that?_

 

It was even cooler in the crypts, and every step echoed along the stones. Ned turned to look at his nephew, and saw that he was busy staring at something that Ned and Robb couldn’t see. Robb looked anxiously at Jon, and jumped when he started to speak in the Old Tongue. Jon’s clanging words rang against the walls in echoes.

 

It grew cold as the echoes trickled away. Ned shivered as he looked around the crypt. Robb shivered too, and moved his torch to see anything.

 

Jon set the cat down and retook the torch. “This way,” Jon said, taking the lead and began walking deeper inside. Ned followed suit and Robb fell into line as soon as Ned began walking. They were followed up by Balerion.

 

As they walked by the statues of Ned’s father, brother and sister, Balerion loudly meowed, and padded over to the statues. The large cat jumped quickly and rested at the feet of Lyanna’s statue, curling up and looking at them as they passed. Jon paid it no mind, and led them deeper and lower into the crypts.

 

They passed by many statues of lords and soon after kings of the past. With every statue they passed, Ned felt as if the stone eyes were staring after them as they walked. Had he been down here a fortnight ago, he’d wave off the feeling as folly. But since Jon proved to him that the Ghosts of Winterfell are indeed roaming the grounds, he wondered how many were watching him and Robb from their tombs.

 

The swords of the statues went from iron to bronze as they walked beyond what was familiar to Ned. There were more direwolf statues at the sides of the Stark ones.

 

“Wait,” Jon said.

 

Ned and Robb halted. Jon stood rigid, holding the torch off to his side. The boy said something in the Old Tongue, and raised his chin. Ned and Robb looked at each other with raised eyebrows, as Jon stood there for several moments as still and silent as the statues around them. Then Jon moved and let loose a relieved sigh. “We’re almost there,” he declared as he retook the lead.

 

Down and darker they went, far past anywhere Ned’s father had taken him. They then came to the entrance of a chamber. The stone of the entrance was carved with strange patterns Ned has never seen before.

 

“Her tomb is in there,” Jon said, pointing inside the chamber. Ned looked at his son’s face, and saw it mirroring his own anxious confusion.

 

“What do we do in there?” Robb asked his cousin.

 

“I was told only to relay one thing to you,” Jon said, his brow furrowed. “Look to the roots.” And with those words he began walking back the way they came.

 

“Jon!” Robb called out. “Where are you going?”

 

“To visit my mother’s crypt,” was the echoing reply. Jon’s footsteps grew fainter in the echoes. When Ned could no longer hear his nephew he turned to his heir.

 

“Are you ready, Robb?” he asked. He saw the various waves of shock and uncertainty in his son back in his solar. Not that Ned could blame him, he had been in the same position himself recently. “If this is too much to take in a single night, I can go alone and bring you back.”

 

Robb shook his head. “It is a lot,” Robb admitted. “But I do want to be here with you. I want to learn to be a Stark that our ancestors are proud of.”

 

Ned smiled at his son, and placed a hand on his shoulder. He gave it a slight squeeze. “I’m sure you’ll make us all proud, Robb,” he said. Robb blinked and a wide grin spread on his face that reminded Ned of his wild brother Brandon.

 

Ned dug into his pocket and pulled out his mother’s necklace. His memories of her have grown faint over the years, but there are things he remembers. How her hair was the same shade of brown as his and Arya’s. How she used to sit him on her lap when they sat quietly in the Godswood together. And he remembers this necklace well. She always wore it, without fail. He remembers grabbing it when she carried him or when he didn’t want her to leave him after she had put him to bed.  

 

It was an odd necklace, of the like he’d never seen before. The leather string was worn and soft, coming through a drilled hole. What he once thought was a dark chunk of flint was actually a thick piece of dragonglass, with jagged edges at the bottom and half a spiral carving on one side. Runes were carved on the back that he never saw before, and Jon could only make out a few words. Ned had only seen it in this state, but it was obviously once whole. Jon couldn’t find the other half of it, apparently it was another Stark secret he was not able to learn.

 

He carried the broken necklace in his hand as he stepped forward. As Ned entered his torch went out. When Robb entered his torch went out too. A chill went down Ned’s spine as he and Robb stood still in complete darkness. “Don’t move Robb,” Ned warned. He had no idea what was in this chamber. The last thing he wanted was for Robb or him to run into something.

 

Suddenly there was light. Below their feet, a pale summer sky blue light shone from the stones. The glow became brighter and formed a spiral that centered in the middle of the room. Blue patterns and drawings shone on the walls around them. Many were spirals and circles, but some were figures with arms and legs.

 

He turned to Robb who was looking awestruck at the light, holding up the unlit brand with a bleeding hand. Ned noticed that blood trickled down and onto the shining marks. Ned looked down at his hand and saw that the broken spiral and runes glowed the same blue light. There wasn’t a burn as he held the glowing necklace. It still felt as smooth and cool in his hands as it did before, it just shone now.

 

Ned carefully glanced and walked towards the center of the spiral. Robb followed him, slowly going in circles to take it all in. “Look to the roots,” Ned murmured, remembering his nephew’s words. He looked about the floor and only saw a small pile of stones towards one of the outer rings of the spiral.

 

Robb craned his head and gasped. “Father,” he called, “Look.” Ned followed his pointed finger and saw directly above their heads a tangled mass of bone white tree roots. “Weirwood roots,” Robb said staring intently at them.

 

“We must be below the Godswood,” Ned deduced, keeping his eyes trained on the roots. They stared at it and stared at it even though it was starting to give Ned a crick in his neck.

 

Then the roots started to bleed. The red fell in large drops. Several landed in Ned’s eyes.

Ned wiped at his eyes, but the thick sap burned his eyeballs. The burning got worse and Ned shouted. Sharp and piercing, like taking several needles to his eyes.  And then Robb started screaming and fell with a thud.

 

Ned tried to wipe the sap away desperately, but the pain in his eyes made him cry out more. He went to the floor and tried to find Robb with blind reaching hands. Wanting to help his screaming son, but the weirwood sap glazed over his eyes and made his vision blur when he tried looking.

 

The burning flared before it dulled away and Ned gasped heavily like he’d run around the grounds. Robb whimpered at some point and Ned was regretting his choice in bringing Robb down here. The sap was sticky as Ned tried wiping it off again with shaking hands. Then he felt small hands at his temples. He shouted, but small thumbs wiped the red substance away from his eyes.

 

When the hands left his face, Ned rubbed at his eyes with his sleeve, and his vision was blurry. He saw a small figure, no bigger than Arya, standing over Robb and wiping at his face. His vision grew clearer and when he focused on the figure, Ned went pale.

 

They had dark brown hair, and large red eyes with the pupils of a cat. Their skin was dappled like a deer and they had large pointed ears sticking from their head. The eyes glowed like vivid embers in the dark, and they turned to Ned.

 

“Can you see me child?” the being asked, their voice a birdsong in wind. “Can you?” they asked Robb. Robb yelped and scooted back from the unknown creature.

 

Said creature held their hands up. There were less than five digits on them, and despite being covered with sap, Ned saw that instead of fingernails they had dark talons.

 

“Who are you?” Ned asked when really what he wanted to ask was ‘What are you?’ The large cat like eyes blinked at him, and Ned shuddered.

 

“I fear you will not be able to say the name my parents gave to me,” the figure said, keeping their hands raised like one would in front of a skittish animal. “But Brandon the Stark called me Cona.”

 

“Brandon Stark?” Robb asked. “Which Brandon Stark?”

 

“The first one,” Cona said. “The one who built this place and the wall of ice and magic.”

 

Ned gaped. “Bran the Builder?” he asked in surprise. “You knew him?”

 

“I was his and he was mine,” the creature said looking at Ned with sad eyes. “He called me wife, and I called him husband.”

 

Ned’s jaw swung open. “You’re Bran the Builder’s wife?” Robb nearly shrieked. “But how, your not--?”

 

“I’m not a child of men?” Cona finished, looking at Robb with their head tilted slightly. They- She lowered her hands. “In my language we are called Those Who Sing the Songs of the Earth. The giants called us Woh dak nag gran. But Brandon the Stark’s people called us the Children of the Forest.”

 

Ned’s mind came to a screeching halt.  “You’re our ancestor?” Ned asked quietly.

 

Cona smiled and Ned saw that she had fangs too. “I am, child” she whispered. “When The Pact was made on the Isle of Faces our peoples made peace. We did so by joining men with my people and having children who share the blood of both to keep that peace.” Cona walked towards a now still Robb and picked up his injured hands. Their ancestor took the sap from their taloned fingers and moved it over the cuts and punctures. Robb yelped and hissed making the Child of the Forest hush Robb with the soft voice of a night breeze.

 

 _A Child of the Forest was Bran the Builder’s wife and mother of his heir._ “So House Stark,” Ned began, vigilantly watching the Child of the Forest tend to Robb with gentle hands.

 

“Is one of the lasting legacies of the Pact,” Cona cut in. They stepped closer silently, intently at Ned and Robb, “and it seems that my blood has not yet abandoned you children.” Those red, cat pupiled eyes roamed Ned’s and Robb’s. “Magic has not left your bones, it waits to be called.”

 

“Is that why you wanted us here?” Robb asked, his eyes as wide as dinner platters.  His question garnering Ned’s attention. Ned quickly realized the state his son was in. There was weirwood sap sticking around his cheeks and nose, and large smudges of blood from where Robb must have tried rubbing the sap off. _Cat would faint if she saw Robb now._

 

“In part,” Cona hummed. “But Brandon the Stark wants you to see what is coming.” At those words she looked at them with concern and fear. “I wish it was not so, but that is the way it must be.”

 

Ned blinked at Cona. “What is coming?” he asked.

 

“Come and see,” Cona beckoned. She stepped off and picked up the necklace Ned dropped. Ned held a hand out to his son and lifted him to his feet. They followed the Child of the Forest to one of the walls covered in glowing pictures. The pictures were not refined like any illustrations he finds in books, and somewhat reminded him of Rickon’s handiwork.

 

The one Cona was pointing at was a picture that had several marks that Ned read as a forest. He stared at it, wondering what was so important.

 

He blinked and found himself in a forest full of snow.

 

He jumped and turned about. The walls were gone, he was outside and the snow covered his feet. “How did we get here?” Robb asked in bewilderment. He kept turning in place, moving his head up and down. “Where are we Father?”

 

“I don’t know,” Ned admitted. This wood was one he’d never been in before. The air smelled different, and the trees seemed… older.

 

Robb cast his eyes and grabbed his arm. “There’s people!” He said loudly, pointing in front of him. Indeed there were three people marching onwards.

 

“Lo there!” Ned hollered, waving his hand above his head. But the three marched on.

 

Robb straightened his mouth and took off running towards the travelling group. Ned chased after him calling his name. Their breathes fogged in the air. Ned saw that their clothes and furs were black. Night’s Watch members, then. But the three Watchmen didn’t pay any attention to their approach.

 

When Robb and Ned stopped close, Ned recognized them. “Aren’t you Lord Royce’s son?” Robb asked the young man in plate armor decorated with runes. Ser Waymar Royce ignored Robb. “Hey!” Robb said, but none of the watchmen heard him. _What is going on?_

 

“Your dead men seemed to have moved camp Will,” the Valeman pronounced to a smaller ranger. An older frostbitten man grumbled at Ser Waymar and Will.

 

 _Dead men?_ Ned wondered. He shivered. It was colder than Winterfell, and he had no furs. He turned to Robb. His son looked as confused as he felt.

 

“Surely they didn’t leave corpses out without a proper burial?” Robb asked. “And how could dead men walk?”

 

“I will not go back to Castle Black a failure on my first ranging!” Ser Waymar declared, glaring at the man he called Will.

 

Ned remembers hosting Ser Waymar when he was making his trek to the Wall. He had stayed in Winterfell about a sennight or perhaps a month ago. And now a Ranger. _His father may be pleased to hear that._ Ned allowed a small twitch of a smile.

 

Then the wind stopped and it grew colder. Ned shivered and followed the ranger’s gaze.

 

It came as a shadow from the woods. A white shadow that stood in front of Ser Waymar. Tall and gaunt, with impossibly pale, blue tinged skin. The armor it donned changed color. Snow white to shadow black to forest green, the colors rippling with every move it made.

 

 _Other!_ his mind screamed. Ned pulled Robb behind him as Ser Royce drew his sword. Ned moved them behind the trunk of a tree as the Other stepped silently forward. The blade it raised was unlike any Ned had seen. A longsword made of clear crystal and impossibly thin was in one hand.

 

“Father,” Robb croaked. “There’s more of them.” Ned turned and saw a horde of silent, mangled corpses standing to watch the small clearing with blue eyes that burned with absolute cold. Many wore ragged furs caked in frozen blood, as torn and weathered as the bodies that wore them. 

 

“Wights,” Ned hissed. He pulled Robb behind him more, constantly roaming his eyes on the monsters. He caught the sight of the Valeknight turned Ranger charging at the Other, and meeting the strange sword with his own steel one.

 

There was no familiar ringing of swords. Only a faint wail, like the cry of one dying in the distance. Ser Waymar struck again, and that wail whispered when the swords met. Again and again, wail after wail, the man and monster traded blows.

 

But Ser Waymar mistimed his next parry, and the thin blade ripped through the armor and into his arm. His steel sword was covered in frost. His wound steamed in the cold and the snow turned red with his hot blood.

 

The Other said something, the words like the cracking of thick ice and mocking the mortal man. Ser Waymar charged with a loud cry, his frost covered sword drawn high. The Other swung his crystal blade as if it was bored.

 

The swords met again.  Ser Waymar gave an echoing scream as the steel shattered into thousands of shards and needles. Ser Waymar screamed again, clutching his bleeding eyes. Ned jumped when he saw the watchers close in. Ned used his body to hide Robb, and he prayed that these creatures cannot see them like the living men couldn’t.

 

The thin blade began to butcher the knight with lazy strikes, as the Other laughed as sharp and cold as icicles. The blade went through his armor like it was made of silk, and sliced his flesh, making his body steam and turn red.

 

The ranger’s body slumped into the bloody snow. Unmoving. Dead.

 

The Other waved its empty hand and Ned wanted to scream when he saw the corpse of Ser Waymar Royce rise. The bloody body stood with burning blue pupils. It turned and went after the cowering body of the ranger he had talked to when he was alive. The ruined, walking corpse moved its gloved hands around Will’s throat, as other wights came barreling in. Will screamed as the dead hands and teeth tore him apart into bloody chunks upon the snow.

 

Then Robb looked away and gave out the most terrified scream Ned has ever heard from him. Ned turned and saw that the Other was standing very close to them, looking directly at them. Those frozen eyes bore so much coldness and loathing when they rested on him and Robb.  

 

Ned screamed, and threw Robb behind him as the Other raised its hellish blade. Ned shut his eyes, bracing himself.

 

“Father!” Robb screamed.

 

But Ned felt nothing. When he chanced cracking his eye open, and saw that he and Robb were back in the crypt chamber.

 

Cona stood in front of Ned. Her large eyes welling with regret and hands raised the necklace placatingly. Robb jumped and hugged Ned tight. Ned held his son close to him, beyond relieved.

 

“That was an Other,” Ned quietly said to Bran the Builder’s wife. “And wights.”  Cona nodded, hands still raised. “They’re back.”

 

“In all honesty, they never left,” Cona said grimly. “They waited and grew. And now the Long Night comes again”

 

“What do they want?” Ned asked. “Why are they back now?” _Why now when my my children are young still and only know summer?_

 

“I can’t say why or what they desire,” Cona answered gravely. “But I was there when they were here before. They brought the cold and the storm. Their wights kill all. Men, women, children. Giants, my people, Brandon’s people. None are safe from them. We’re all prey to them.”

 

Cona came forward and placed a gentle hand on Ned’s arm. The touch was cool, but much, much warmer compared to what he just felt. “I am sorry child,” Cona said, voice thin. “But you needed to know what is coming.”

 

Ned looked down at his ancestor. She looked so remorseful, lips quivering as her eyes glazed with unshed tears. “I understand,” he said. _It’s like waking up in one of Old Nan’s scary stories. But if I continued on here in Winterfell, unaware… I could have doomed us all._ “Thank you.”

Cona looked up at Ned with wide eyes.

 

“What are we to do?” Robb asked. “We can’t sit here and wait. Not after seeing that.”  He shuddered at the fresh memory.

 

Cona gave a weary sigh. “You need to prepare for the Long Night,” she gravely intoned.

 

Ned cringed and felt sick to his stomach.

 

“Winter is coming,” Cona continued. She placed the necklace in his hand, moving his fingers to curl around it. “And the dead come with it.”

 


	13. Ned IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned sees some familiar faces

Ned was still holding Robb tight as he really digested what Cona said to him, and what he saw with his own two eyes. _The Others are back, and they’re killing people to eat or turn into wights._ He shuddered, and looked down at Cona, the Wife of Bran the Builder, and at the illuminated necklace she handed back to him.

 

“Where do we start?” he asked. “What must we do?” He truly had little idea of what he can do against the Others. The tales of the Long Night and the Last Hero were so old that the stories speak of little.

 

Cona looked up at him, and her fanged grin was like that of an old woman smiling at a child for saying something smart. “There is much you children have forgotten,” she stated, “But Jaehaerys got you two here, and now you can see me, and the rest of us.” She waved a hand and from thin air a gray horse sized mist rolled in.

 

As it grew near the shape became defined and Ned stood there gaping. It was a direwolf, a gray direwolf that was thrice as high as Cona. Yet his ancestor pet the massive beast and scratched it behind the ear. “Now that you can see, we who have died yet remain have much to teach you two,” She said, continuing to pet the massive direwolf’s head.

 

“We will help you prepare the living for the war with the dead. Speak to Brandon the Stark.” She turned to look away from them. Ned followed her gaze to the small pile of stones. _It’s a cairn_ , Ned belatedly realized.   _Her cairn that houses her bones._

 

“Go, children,” Cona said. “You have much to learn, and many to speak to.” And in a blink, Cona was gone. Her direwolf sat there, staring at him and Robb with amber colored eyes that reflected more intelligence than any living beast he’s seen. The direwolf padded over and moved out the chamber door.

 

He wasn’t sure what his mind should be screaming about. Still reeling from shock he looked over to Robb. Ned saw Robb pinch himself. He checked his son for any injuries he may have gotten in that hellish vision, and to his relief the only injuries Robb has are from Balerion.

 

“I’m fine Father,” he assured Ned, but his voice was not steady and strained as he said this. Robb turned his blue eyes to the chamber entrance. “Who are we going to see next?” he asked, and Ned wondered if he meant it for himself.

 

“Only one way to know,” he answered as he began to leave the chamber of Cona’s tomb. Robb followed at his side. The first thing Ned noticed was that it was incredibly noisy. Many conversations clanged and echoed off the stone walls. Some in the common tongue, some in the Old, and Ned thought he heard a few words of Valyrian, but everything fell on his ears in waves of echoes.

To their shock, two unlit brands on either side of the entrance suddenly caught fire. Ned and Robb jumped as the flames came alive right as they left the chamber. Ned looked behind him and saw that the marks still glowed.

 

“Did it work?” an almost forgotten voice asked, very close to Ned.

 

“Be patient Brandon,” another voice sighed.

 

Ned, feeling his chest grow tight, slowly turned his head and felt his heart stop. Standing near the entrance was his older brother and his father.

 

His older brother stood there younger than him now. His tall, handsome brother looked the same as he did all those years ago. His hair was a darker brown than Ned’s and not a single strand of gray in his locks and beard, his eyes that blue-gray Benjen has too. He even shifted his weight in the same restless manner like he did when he wanted to do something impulsive.

 

His father stood there, tall and a few years older and grayer than Ned himself. His familiar grim face was frowning at Brandon. But his eyes  didn’t seem as hard as Ned remembered.

 

“Brandon,” Ned said, taking a step closer. “Father.”

 

The two ghosts stared at Ned in shock, eyes wide and mouths open. Robb stared at the three with the expression of a fish out of water.

 

The ghost of his father, Lord Rickard came forward. But before his father could say anything, Brandon rushed forward and wrapped Ned in a tight hug. The air left Ned’s lungs as his brother lifted him off his feet, like he did when they grew up. But Brandon’s touch was cold like a crisp morning wind, not warm like it was when Ned came home from the Vale.

 

When Ned was set back on his feet, Brandon gave him a wide grin. “That used to be easier,” he said to Ned. “You’ve put some meat  on you little brother.” He slapped a hand against Ned’s stomach as he said that. He hugged Ned again, and Ned hugged back fiercely.

 

“Son,” his father said, drawing both Ned and Brandon’s attention. Ned always respected him, but he spent the least time with him growing up. Even before his mother’s passing, his father wasn’t the warmest of men. But he was standing there, looking at Ned with the most emotion he’d seen on his face. His eyes a wet mix of love and regret.

 

Lord Rickard stood in front of Ned and placed a hand on his shoulder. _I’m as tall as him now,_ Ned realized standing eye to eye with the man who he remembers being as formidable as a mountain. He felt Brandon tighten his hold around him. “I’m sorry for not raising you as I should have,” his father said, his voice more gravelly than Ned was used to hearing. “I should have done more for you, instead you had to make yourself the Stark of Winterfell on your own when your brother and I...” the air was heavy as they all knew what he wasn’t saying.

 

Ned’s throat felt tight, as he stared at his father’s ghost. Brandon kept his grip around Ned, and it felt familiar and alien all at once. An old habit back when they were children was for the four of them to grab hold of another when Father spoke to them.

 

“But you can see us Ned, Robb,” Brandon broke in loudly, casting a grin at a shocked Robb. “You two and Lyanna’s boys are gonna need all the help you can get before the winter comes.”

 

“Aunt Lyanna had another son?” Robb asked, raising a sap covered brow. “I thought Jon was the last of Prince Rhaegar’s children?”

 

Brandon blinked and guffawed at Ned. “You tell him everything except that!?” he asked in disbelief. He made a gesture to Robb with his hand. “You tell him about ghosts and magic but you don’t tell him about Jae’s brother!?”

 

Ned blinked, and after a moment he realized Brandon was talking about their nephew Jon...er, Jaehaerys. Then he thinks back to the meeting in his solar and realizes they neglected to tell Robb about Aegon surviving the Sacking of Kingslanding.

 

Ned opens his mouth to speak but before he can get a syllable out, another voice cuts in with “What are you screaming about now, Brandon?”

 

They all turn and Ned’s jaw swings open. Bathed in the glow of the torchlights at the mouth of the stairway was a tall, slim woman. Her long face was beautiful, her hair the same plain brown as Ned’s, her eyes the same steel and stone gray. At first Ned thought it was his sister. But Lyanna’s hair was dark like Brandon and Benjen’s, and this woman was years older than his little sister.  As he stared at this Stark woman, he recognized her after so many years.

 

His mother, Lyarra, stepped forward. She gave him a smile as she passed his father. Brandon disentangled himself from Ned. She cupped his face in her cold hands. “Ned,” she said, a warm love flickering in her eyes. She wrapped her arms around him, and Ned felt all his boyhood tears prick his eyes when he returns it.

“The three of us have lots of knowledge to pass on to you two,”  Lord Rickard interjected.

 

“What about Jon?” Robb asked, pulling a grim frown. “I don’t understand why he has to be kept in the dark about these secrets, he’s as much a Stark as I am. Jo- Jon can see the Ghosts of Winterfell and talk to them in the Old Tongue. It’d make more sense if he knew as well.”

 

“You think every Stark knows what you now know?”  Brandon asked, incredulous. He got all their attention on him now. “Robb, what you experienced, what Ned needs to learn now, are ancient secrets only meant for the Head of House Stark, his heir and their Secret Keeper. Yes, Jae is family, but he’s not in direct inheritance for Winterfell, and Ned hasn’t even trusted him enough to tell Jae his real name and ancestry.”

 

Ned felt stricken at Brandon’s blunt words. He began to protest. “That’s not-”

 

“Yes it is,” Brandon snapped, baring his teeth. “So it was obvious that Jae wasn’t going to be your Keeper, Ned. As such we weren’t able to tell him everything we wanted to.”

 

“Keeper?” Robb asked, raising a brow, some hair hanging dangerously close to a red, sticky looking smear on his face.

 

“A Secret Keeper, or Keeper for short, is the Stark of Winterfell’s most trusted kin,”  Mother began as she unwrapped her arms. “Their task is to keep the key that wakes the runes of Winterfell safe, and to learn the secrets of Winterfell to pass onto the heir should anything happen to the family head.” At that she pointed to the glowing necklace in Ned’s hand. “Which would be that,” she whispered to Ned. He blinked in surprise as his mind raced.

 

“So a confidant and a reagent?” Robb asked.

 

Ned’s mother nodded. “More or less,” she affirmed.

 

“Do they have to be kin?” Robb asked. “Could Father have asked Mother to be his Keeper?”

 

Brandon let out a bitter, barking laugh. “Robb, if your mother so much as touched the key Ned’s carrying now, your grandmother would break her fingers.”

 

“Brandon!” Ned shouted, appalled, as Robb went pale and his blue eyes flashed with hurt.

 

“I would,” Mother simply confirmed. Ned’s head whipped to look at her, and his eyes saw her serious expression. _She truly means that..._

 

“She was Father’s Keeper,” Brandon simply explained. “Plus she was raised among the Flints, and they’re staunchly proud Northerners descended from the First Men. If you think she’d approve of your Catelyn, you’d be a fool to do so.”

 

“Your father entrusted me as his cousin to help him rule and keep Winterfell safe for you four should anything happen to him,” Mother began, her gaze and voice unwavering. “But after my death your father seemed keen on destroying the North as we knew it.” Her words were biting and bitter.

 

“Lyarra, please” his father tried to placate. But she turned her hard eyes on him, and Ned was worried he’d catch fire all over again.  

 

“Your foolish plans have weakened the North! And cost us the respect of our bannermen!” She snarled at her husband. “I told you time and again to not heed that rat in chains! And now look at what you’ve done to the North! To our family!”

 

As his mother raged at his father who hung his head low, Robb was standing there, an unmoving mix of confusion and shock. Ned looked much the same.  

 

“My most Northern grandchild is a Targaryen with a girlish figure!” she yelled at his father. “Sansa is so Southron, it’s unbearable to call her my granddaughter! And the heart of the North, who held the Old Ways and the Old Gods for thousands of years now, has a fucking sept in it for that selfish Seven following Andal you forced on my sons!”

 

It was silent as the walls echoed her screams and rage. Her words ringing inside Ned who felt hollow as he let them sink in.  Ned often felt comfort in silence, he was the Quiet Wolf. But gods he hated this, and he wasn’t sure what to even say to break it.

 

His mother turned away from his father. Emotions flickered in her eyes, love coming through again and again as she looked at Ned and Robb. And was that disappointment? But not a single one was remorse for what she said. She sighed. “Why are you turning to the South too Ned?” she forlornly asked. “Why is Winterfell becoming like the South?”

 

Inside he felt his wolfblood bristle at those words. “It isn’t,” he insisted. “Our way is the Old Way.”

 

She looked Ned in the eye, but her expression showed that she disagreed. “Your children spend more time in that sept than in the Godswood,” she countered. “Your wife and her septa have made your children more Southron, more Andal than any generation of Starks prior. And plan Southron matches for them all.”

 

Ned wanted to tell his mother that she was mistaken. “Before you say anything Ned look at your family and tell me I am wrong,” she said. “When was the last time your children prayed to the Old Gods? What plans have been made for them to integrate with the Northern nobility? Which of the Old Ways do they know and practice?”

 

Ned’s wolfblood still burned, but he thought on her words. He can’t clearly recall the last time Sansa or his younger sons went to the Godswood to pray; Cat usually took them with her to the sept. His children have stayed at Winterfell as much as possible, meeting the Northern nobles and their children and grandchildren only happened at harvest feasts or the few visits they joined him on.

 

And a stone formed in his gut when he began to see more and more of what his mother was saying as he recollected. He thinks of Sansa’s interests and behavior, Bran’s dreams to be a knight, and how Robb’s closest friend is Theon, who isn’t a Northerner at all.

His mind went back to the lessons his daughters have with their septa. _Lyanna never had such lessons._

 

His mind goes back to when he had to lead the Northerners in Robert’s Rebellion. He remembers seeing doubt in the eyes of his bannermen. He thought it was due to his youth at the time, but did they see the Stark son who was raised outside the North? And if so, what did they think of him having a sept built for Cat? That stone in his belly grew heavy and cold the more he thought.

 

“I’m a Stark,” Robb broke in, drawing Ned’s mind from the heavy thoughts rolling through his head. Robb’s face was growing stonier, but his eyes flashed with hurt and stubborness. “Our way is the Old Way.”

 

His mother came forward, standing close to Robb. “I’m sure you aren’t happy by what I say,” she plainly told her grandson. “And I will not lie to you Robb, I’m far from pleased with your mother and your generation.” Robb flinched at the admission. And Ned felt hurt too. Cat is the mother of his children and he’s come to love her. And he loves all his children with every bit of his soul, and he includes Jon as his son too.  To hear his mother say she was disappointed in them cut deep.

 

“But you are a Stark,” she said, looking Robb straight in the eye. “You’re my grandson, which is why I’m going to do what I can to protect our family.” She gave her husband a scathing side eye. “Regardless of my opinion on your upbringing.”

 

“I know I made mistakes Lyarra,” Ned’s father admitted, shocking Ned. “And I know you’ll never forgive me for sending Ned to the Vale or promising Brandon and Lyanna to southrons, but reopening this fight will not help them fight the Others.”

 

She gave him a stone hard glare, the same one Ned remembers his grandmother wore, before sighing. “You’re right, Rickard.”

 

“You know that the Others are back?” Ned found himself asking.

 

“Bran the Builder said so when he woke up,” Brandon said, his face unusually grim.  

 

Ned’s jaw swung open. “You’ve met Bran the Builder?” he asked in amazement.

 

“He wanted to speak to Jae since he knows the Old Tongue,” his brother explained. “And was the only living person in Winterfell who can see him. Until now.” He whispered the last part, but Ned heard him all the same.

 

“Jae and several ghosts who know the Old Tongue have gone and spread the word throughout Winterfell,” Father added. “We’re gathering together to help you plan for the coming storm. But Bran the Builder will want to meet you two and tell you what must be done.”

“Where will we find him?” Robb asked, voice mirroring the shock he and Ned felt.

 

The three ghosts pointed their fingers behind Ned and Robb. The two living Starks whipped their heads around. The direwolf was back, sitting on its haunches next to Cona.

 

Cona was standing outside her burial chamber intertwining her fingers in the hand of a man. He was tall like Ned, but atop his head of brown hair rested a crown of bronze swords. A pair of Stark gray eyes were set in a long, bearded face that was staring at Ned and Robb with a grim expression.

 

“Children,” Cona said in that songlike voice of hers. “This is Brandon the Stark. Or Bran the Builder as you know him as.” She gestured to her husband with a small open hand.

 

Ned felt himself stop breathing as Bran the Builder let go of his wife’s hand and stood in front of him.

 


	14. Jae IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jae finds something in the crypts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not updating for so long. Life got hectic for me and I didn't find the time to work on an update. In all honesty I feel like this isn't my best chapter, but I wanted to get the story rolling some more.

Jae slowly blinked, his eyes heavy with the need to sleep. He was trying to stay awake, but he was so tired. For days now, Uncle Ned has been asking him many questions with difficult and lengthy answers. To add to that Jae’s broken several dawns finding and translating many of the writings hidden in his Uncle’s Solar.

 

Right now as Uncle Ned and Robb were supposed to meet Cona, he was sitting at the feet of Mother Lyanna’s statue, Balerion curled up on his lap. The cat was very warm and furry, and Jae felt cozy. Father was sitting next to him, letting Jae lean his head against his shoulder.

 

“You need to sleep Jae,” Father voiced, his silver brows creasing his forehead in worry. Jae gave a grunt. _“Valar ēdrussis_ , all men must sleep,”  he chidded his son.

 

“There’s too much I had to do,” Jae stubbornly grumbled against his father’s shoulder. Father raised an eyebrow at him, an unimpressed expression painting his face. “I’ll sleep when I get the chance Father.”

 

Father didn’t argue. Instead he began to hum. Jae’s tired mind sluggishly absorbed the familiar tune. But his eyes refused to open, and he felt so serene as the melody lulled his mind quiet.

 

Jae blinked and he was in the vibrant forest. He was facing the large Heart tree, and felt a hand grab his. He turned his head to find that Egg was looking grimly at him, his eyebrows furrowed and a grimace curling his lips.

 

“The ghosts are in a frenzy,” Egg suddenly began. “Ghosts of the First Men are scared of the coming winter and are trying to make plans to prepare.” Jae gave his brother’s hand a squeeze.

 

Egg ran his free hand through his dyed locks. “I’m not sure what to do Jae,” Egg admitted. “I’ve made plans on how to win back the throne and appease the North and Dorne.” Egg’s voice cracked. “But all the odds seem stacked against me. I have no army. People believe me dead and will proclaim me a mummer. I’ve not tested nor proven myself on my skills before. And now with the Long Night coming... I-I feel useless.”

 

Jae let go of his brother’s hand and wrapped his arms around him. “You’re a good man Egg,” Jae reassured. “And I believe in you.”

 

Egg shook his head. Jae grabbed his brother’s head and held it in both hands, making him look Jae in the eye. “I do. I believe in you because you will make a good king.”

 

“Good leaders never seek power or wealth,” Egg retorted, slipping out of Jae’s hands. “I seek a throne.”

 

“Why do you seek it?” Jae asked, already aware of his brother’s answer. He stepped closer to Egg. “Why do you seek that accursed blood stained chair?”

 

“Because I can’t make amends with the North and Dorne without being king!” Egg snapped, his dragon waking. “Aerys murdered Starks! And the Usurper sits there because innocent Martell blood was spilled!”  

 

“So what will you do to make things right!?” Jae goaded, stepping closer again. “You have magic, but you can’t bring back the dead!”

 

“But I can give them their crowns back!” Egg yelled, his rich voice thick with conviction. His face was set and his vibrant violet eyes burned bright with determination. Jae thought he looked like a king then. “I’ve told you, Aegon the Unlikely and all the other ghosts of our House! I’m not going to make the North and Dorne kneel to me! Too much innocent blood has been spilled for there to be peace with all seven kingdoms!”

 

Egg was still glaring, his chest heaving as his dragon blood was still running hot.

 

Jae gave a sharp smile to him, and grasped his shoulder. “The North remembers, and Dorne never forgets,” he remarked. “So you cannot forget why you’re fighting to reclaim the throne.”

 

Egg gave him a mirthless smile. “I still cannot prove my identity,” he reminded.

 

“You don’t burn,” Jae noted. “It caught Lord Stark’s attention, perhaps it will do the same for Prince Doran and Price Oberyn.”

 

“Perhaps,” Egg muttered. He rubbed the back of his neck and let out a groan.

 

“If you’re having doubts about your plan to rule five kingdoms instead of seven, remember that the North and Dorne weren’t conquered like the other kingdoms. Torrhen Stark knelt to protect his people. Dorne entered by marriage,” Jae remarked. “With the murders of our kin at the Red Keep, with how the southron lords view the Northerners as dirty savages and the Dornish as foreign stinking whores, it doesn’t seem unreasonable to think that those two kingdoms would have had enough of the Iron Throne one day.”

 

“I know all that,” Egg snapped. “And I’m not doubting that they’d break from the Iron Throne eventually. I’m just doubting if I can make it happen at all. With Jon puttering about Volantis making no contact with anyone besides the Spider and his contacts, it seems unlikely that I’ll make amends with anyone.” His brother ran a hand through his blue hair.

 

“And now with the Long Night coming, I’m still trying to decide the best way I can help. Coin can only do so much in a war of myths and magic,” Egg grumbled, running a hand over his face. “And we have a short supply of magic. Gods know the Conqueror and his sister-wives could’ve just soared in and fucking burned the Oth-” Egg’s face went slack.

 

The two brothers looked at each other, an epiphany sparking their purple eyes. “Does Vermax’s clutch still exist in Winterfell?” Egg quickly asked.

 

Jae nodded just as quick. “Seven eggs total,” he confirmed, his mind racing. _If we can bring back dragons, that would change everything._ “The Others bring ice and winter,” Jae murmured. “Doesn’t fire melt ice?”

 

“If we can hatch an egg...” Egg rubbed his chin in contemplation. “We may have a chance of beating the Long Night before the next generation is born.”

 

An entire generation was born to the Long Night last time, when wights were more than a scary story. Jae shuddered at the thought of it coming again.

 

“I’ll try and hatch one,” Jae declared. He stood straight and his face was set with determination.

 

Edd mimicked his stance. “As will I,” he declared. Jae blinked in surprise. “I’m coming to Winterfell, _valonqar_.”

 

Jae’s breath hitched as he stared at his brother in shock. “You will?” he asked, his voice small and tight. Egg nodded, and gave him a growing smile.

 

Jae bit his lip and wrapped Egg in a hug. “It’s a trip long overdue,” Egg murmured as he returned the hug. “It’ll take some time, but I’ll do my best to come.”

 

Jae couldn’t help but smile as he hugged his brother tighter. For years and years Jae has wanted his brother to be with him in more than dreams. The times when he grew weary of having to constantly lie to his living kin about who he is, the times when he has to keep so many secrets he felt like he would burst, he found himself longing for Egg to be there when he was awake.

 

“You better come,” Jae murmured, his voice thick with elation and hope.

 

Egg chuckled and ruffled his black curls. “I’ll need to get a few things together first, but I’ll let you know as soon as I get aboard a ship to White Harbor,” Egg promised. He grabbed Jae by the shoulders and looked him in the eye. “In the meantime, I need you to tell me what’s being done to fortify the North. And let me know if there is anything I can bring that will be of use.”

 

Jae nodded, and he couldn’t keep his grin off his lips. The thought of Egg coming to Winterfell, the thought of being with his brother when he was awake, it made him so elated. He felt like a child receiving a name day gift.

 

“You go see if you’re bonded to one of those eggs,” his brother said. “But save one for me.”

 

Jae snorted and gave his brother a friendly punch on the shoulder. “Don’t take too long then, you ass,” he retorted, damn near giddy with excitement.

 

Egg chuckled and returned the friendly punch with one of his own. “I need supplies and weapons,” he reminded good naturedly. “And I can’t fly, I need to find a ship.”

 

Jae nodded and sobered from his glee. He knows that Egg won’t be able to come for some time, and that he won’t be guaranteed a safe voyage.

 

“I know,” he murmured. “I just-”

 

“I’m excited to see you too valonqar,” Egg intoned, still smiling. “I just wish it was for a less terrifying reason.” Egg’s smile was melancholic, making him look so much like their father.

 

“Me too,” Jae agreed. The two brother cast grateful, but wary smiles to the Heart tree and hugged again.

 

When Jae opened his eyes again he was back in the crypt. He sat upright and jumped to his feet. He didn’t see it, but as he passed the unused torches that lined the walls and passages they suddenly caught fire. Father gave a surprised shout as he began to run down to the lower levels leaving a trail of light behind him.

 

He passed many ghosts and ran past them all, not stopping to speak to them. He ran down and down to the lowest levels.  He hurried down the flight of stairs where Cona’s cairn lies. In his rush he skipped the last three steps and lost his footing.

 

Before he could fall flat on his face two pairs of ghostly arms wrapped around him. He looked from Father and Mother Elia to the shocked faces of his grandparents, his uncles, Robb, Bran the Builder and Cona.

 

“What’s gotten into you Jae?” Mother Elia asked in concern, not moving her grasp from his waist.

 

“Was it something you dreamed?” Father asked from his other side, helping to steady him to his feet. “Something dire?”

 

Jae ignored their concern and looked eagerly at Bran the Builder. “How do you kill the dead?” Jae asked in a rush, his words an odd mix of Old Tongue with a heavy Valyrian accent.

 

Bran the Builder raised a brow at him. “Can you repeat that?” he asked Jae. Had he not been feeling the rush of energy he had, he may have taken pride in painting surprise on the Builder’s face. Cona blinked at him and looked amused, her smile absolutely wolfish.

 

“Breathe, son,” Mother Elia whispered to him. She stroked his back, her concern not leaving her face. Jae gave his parents a sheepish smile before taking a shallow breath.

 

“How do you kill the dead?” he asked again, mindful of his pronunciation this time.

 

“Fire and obsidian,” Bran the Builder and Cona chorused, voices grim. “Fire kills wights, but only obsidian can harm their masters,” The Builder clarified. “Why do you ask?”

 

Jae just grinned wide before turning back and leaping up the stairs. He hurried back up, managing to trip going up a flight of stairs in his rush and hitting his shin against the stone step. He heard his uncles call out to him. He bit back a curse and raced to up other stairs and levels. He heard footsteps following after him. “Jon!?” Robb loudly beseeched, voice clouded with shock and concern.

 

 He got to his desired level of the crypts and ran again. “Cregan!” he called out. “Arrana! Jace!” He slid to stop himself on the smooth stone floor, but he was greeted by the three.

 

Lord Cregan was a man with dark hair half laced with grey. He was stern looking and looks quite like Uncle Ned. Arrana Snow was a grim woman but she smiles just like Uncle Benjen when he talks to her. Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, or Jace as Arrana and he call the former crown prince, didn’t have the typical Valyrian look at first glance. His hair was a mousy brown and his nose was puggish, but Jace has familiar lilac eyes.

 

The three look at him with confusion and worry.

 

“Where’s the clutch?” he excitedly asked words a jumble of clashing accents. “Where’re the eggs?” He panted, trying to catch his breath as the former Lord of Winterfell blinked at him.

 

Jace and Arrana shared a look, before Jace grinned at him. “Come this way,” he crowed, taking Jae by the arm along.

 

Prince Jacaerys Velaryon married Lord Cregan Stark’s sister, Arrana Snow. For the bride price, Vermax’s clutch of eggs was given in hopes that their descendants would be dragon riders. But they both died before having a child, and without the Pact of Ice and Fire giving Lord Cregan a Targaryen wife the eggs were hidden in Arrana’s crypt.  

 

Which is where Jace took Jae to. Arrana didn’t have a statue at her crypt like Mother Lyanna does, but Lord Cregan had commissioned her profile to be engraved onto an ornate stone that decorated the place where her bones lie. Jace let go of him and moved to the back of her crypt. Jae heard the echoes of his family grow louder as they neared.  

 

There was a large stone slab on the floor that fit snug between her crypt and the wall. Jace moved a hand to one corner of the slab and began to push. Jae quickly joined in and pushed with all his might. It was slow, stone grinding against stone as the two slowly moved the slab. Jae could hear Robb shouting and running closer. Then the pushing became easier suddenly and Jae stumbled. He turned and saw Lord Cregan next to him, pushing against the stone alongside them.

 

The slab eventually gave way to a hidden cache. Inside the cache was a heavy chest covered in dust. The two ghosts reached in and pulled the chest out. His living kin came towards him, out of breath as they walked over.

 

“What-” Robb huffed, “what’s going on Jon?” He was panting, and Jae was shocked at the state of him. He had what looked like red splotches of blood caking his face, and his hands shook. Jae turned and saw the same red patches on Uncle Ned’s face too.  

 

 _What the hell happened to you two?_ He wondered.

 

“What’s in this?” Bran the Builder asked, pointing to the chest. Jae turned back towards the chest. Lord Cregan knelt in front of it, but Jae could clearly see him.

 

The chest didn’t have a common padlock. The lock that sealed it looked to be a sort of puzzle. Cregan Stark moved the pieces and he heard the chest unlock with a muted click. Cregan and Jace stepped away from the chest. He felt trepidation hit him like a war hammer. Arrana Snow stood next to her husband, and the two clasped hands. “Go on Jae,” she encouraged, motioning for him to go forward. He swallowed his nervousness.

 

A warm, sticky hand grabbed his. Robb was looking at him, his face scrunching with concern. “Please tell me what’s going on, Jon,” Robb pleaded, his big clear blue eyes shiny with worry. Jae squeezed Robb’s hand back.

 

“I will,” he promised. He looked back at his cousin, his dark eyes sincere. “I will explain things very shortly Robb.” He let Robb’s hand go with a bit of resistance due to his grip and the sticky substance on his cousin’s fingers.

 

He stepped towards the chest and knelt in front of it. He gulped as he placed his hands on the lid. There was a thick layer of dust covering what Jae guessed was ironwood. The lid was heavy as he lifted it, the old hinges slowly creaking as the chest became exposed to Jae’s eager eyes.

 

His gasped. He was told by Jace years ago that Winterfell secretly held seven dragon eggs. But nothing could have prepared him to actually lay eyes on them. They were all nestled at the bottom of the chest on what looked to be cushions of velvet. They weren’t smooth like bird eggs, they scales of varying colors in the torch light.

 

Jae blinked slowly. The torchlights around him seemed to dim, and he had a hard time focusing. Were people talking around him? They sounded far away. He felt his mind enter a fog, and he was vaguely aware of his arm moving. His mind cleared at the feel of warmth under his palms.

 

The torches came alive, burning brighter and hotter than before. Jae saw that he was gently cradling an egg in his hands. He slowly lifted it up to get a better look at it. It felt heavy, and the warmth seemed to pulse in time with his pounding heart. The scales started as a steely gray turning silver or winter rose blue at the end. As he shifted the egg he saw that the scales had an iridescent shine.

 

“Gods be good,” Father blurted loudly. Jae turned to see that everyone was still there staring slack jawed at him.

 

Jace was the first to break out of his shock. He came forward and gave Jae several pats on the back, shouting about how proud he was. Arrana grinned a motherly smile at him, her eyes wistful. Cregan looked at him before saying that he was going to spread the news around Winterfell before leaving with a smile to Jae.

 

Bran the Builder stood over him, looking puzzled at the egg he was cradling. Cona was next to him, peering closely at the egg. “What is that?” Bran the Builder asked, raising a brow at him.

 

“A dragon egg,” Jae breathed in the Old Tongue. He stared down at the egg, still not truly believing it.

 

“How will a dragon help if they breathe ice?” Cona asked in the Old Tongue, curiously tilting her head to get a better view of the egg.

 

“These dragons breathe fire,” Jae answered. “My ancestors rode dragons that breathed fire.”

 

The two founders of House Stark looked at him and the egg in shock. And in the usually ancient and wary eyes of the Builder, Jae saw something spark in them.

 

“That may be very useful,” The Builder mused, stroking his beard in a thoughtful manner. “That could help us against the wights.”

 

Cona gave him a fanged grin, and gave him a light cuff under the chin. “You children may have more hope than we feared,” she said.

 

“My brother says he’s coming here to see if he’s bonded to an egg as well,” Jae quickly tacked on, his voice light and eager. “If he does, we’ll have two dragons on our side.”

 

Bran the Builder gave him a brief flash of a smile and Jae felt pride stoke his insides.

 

“Jon is that an egg?” Robb asked pointing at said egg. “A dragon egg?” Uncle Ned stood next to Robb, completely speechless, staring at the egg he carried.

 

Jae stood up and quickly walked over to his cousin. “It is!” he confirmed, an eager smile wide on his face. “Look!” he shouted excited. He held the egg out to Robb. “It’ll hatch! See it’s warm!”

 

Robb gave Jae a dubious look, but he moved a shaky hand to rest the pads of his fingers on the egg. Robb frowned and looked up at Jae with grave concern. “Jon it’s a cold stone,” he said.

 

Jae blinked at him and held the stone away from him. “No it’s not,” he refuted, “It’s warm like holding a handful of embers!”

 

“Holding em-” Robb spluttered. Uncle Ned put a hand on his son’s shoulder.

 

“You won’t be able to feel it Robert Stark,” Jace intoned, appearing behind Jae. Robb staggered back. “You are not _zaldrīzo ānogar,_ like Jaehaerys or his brother.” Jace gave Jae a fatherly grin and ruffled his hair. “You feel it because that dragon is bonded to you and you alone. No one else will feel it.”

 

Jae nodded, feeling his tension ease at the former dragon rider’s words. He turned and saw his parents. Mother Elia was looking at him with looks that swayed from awe, and concern.

 

Father was staring at him intently. “The three heads will bring dragons back into the world...” he whispered.

 

Jae cringed and shrunk back at the words. He loved his father, but he loathes the prophecies he is obsessed with. The prophecy of the return of dragons is tied closely with the prophecy of the Prince who was Promised led to so much misery for generations of Targaryens.

 

Mother Elia was quick to react. She walked away from Father and enveloped Jae in a hug. “You pay him no mind son,” she softly told him. “You and Egg will do amazing things without those riddles,” she tipped his head up so he would look at her. She was his tallest parent. “But you must be careful,” she cautioned her eyes welling with tears. “The Usurper and his lords are dangerous with far reaching blades.”

 

“I will Mother,” he promised. He held the egg in one hand to wrap her in a hug. “I’ll be careful.” When he let her go he saw the expressions on Robb and Uncle Ned’s face.

 

“Erm…” Jae mumbled. “Robb, Uncle Ned these are two of my parents. Princess Elia,” he motioned to her. Mother Elia gave the two a graceful nod. “And my father Prince Rhaegar.” Father gave a nod to them as well, his face coloring with his usual melancholy. “Mother Lyanna is watching over my brother at the moment, but she might come back soon.”

 

Uncle Ned wore a pinched expression and he saw emotions conflicting in his eyes. _He must have been wanting to see Mother Lyanna,_ Jae figured.

 

Robb looked gobsmacked, his eyes moving between his parents before resting on Jae. “Do you have a twin?” Robb blurted out.

 

Jae felt thrown for a loop. “What?” He asked his cousin. “What made you ask that?”

 

“Uncle Brandon mentioned that you have a brother,” Robb said, almost pouting. “And well, um…” Robb casted a nervous glance to Mother Elia. Jae stared his cousin down, watching Robb squirm while he pieced together what Robb was getting at.

 

“My sister Rhaenys is a ghost,” Jae said, feeling Mother Elia pet his dark curls. “But Aegon’s alive, Robb.”

 

“What!?” Robb shouted, looking between all of them. “How!?”

 

Jae and his parents regaled how Egg was sent to Essos. It wasn’t the easiest, with his parents choking up at certain recollections and Jae’s voice leaving him as well.

 

“So your...brother,” Robb nearly choked on the word. He was rubbing his temple, grimacing as he kept touching the red substance on his face. “He’s alive and been in Essos all this time?”

 

“Hopefully not for much longer,” Jae intoned happily, smiling.

 

“What do you mean Jon?” Uncle Ned asked, his eyebrows furrowing.

 

“Egg said he’s coming here,” Jae answered, almost humming. “He told me so when I dreamed earlier.”  Father and Mother Elia looked at each other before looking at Jae in shock. They both hugged him and whispered eager words between the three of them. They both dissipated, no doubt going to share the news.

 

“A dream?” Robb asked, incredulous. “How can you dream of him saying that?”

 

Jae bit back a sigh, and cradled the warm, pulsing egg. He would have another long night of explaining to do.


	15. Jaehaerys V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some history about the Long Night is learned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everybody! I'm so sorry for not updating sooner. My life got hectic again. I want to say thank you to all the readers and that I do plan on continuing this story. I hope you all like this update!

Robb was staring at Jae and he was feeling so awkward about it. “All this time you’ve been dreaming of the future, Aegon, and talking to our ancestors?” Robb asked, again. Jae nodded, rubbing his neck. Robb’s eyes were still unmoving and Jae was tempted to hit him with the dragon egg. 

 

“How did you know that Winterfell’s crypts housed dragon eggs?” Uncle Ned asked, glancing warily at the egg he carried. “I thought it was only a story Old Nan tells.” 

 

“I’ve known about the eggs for a few years,” Jae admitted, sheepishly. “After Jace, uh- Prince Jacaerys, Arrana and Cregan woke from their rest they eventually told me about the eggs.” 

 

Uncle Ned looked at him curiously. “Then why did you only try now?” he asked. “I’d have assumed you would have tried finding it years ago.” 

 

Jae bit back a grimace. After he had found out about the eggs he overheard his father mentioning those prophecies again. Father talked with King Jaehaerys about it, how he was convinced that Jae was the Song of Ice and Fire and one of the three heads of the dragon. 

 

Jae asked Grandmother Rhaella about the what his words meant. And he  wished he never learned. Those prophecies with their riddling words were the reason why Grandmother Rhaella married the Mad King who terrorized her. Why Father took two wives and unintentionally ripped the realm apart. Why all but a handful of House Targaryen still live in hiding. So he let the eggs sit in Arrana’s tomb and rarely thought of them since. 

 

Back then he wanted no part of it, and today he still doesn’t want to be the reason why most of his family are ghosts before their time. 

 

Jae closed his eyes and held the egg tighter. _ Father may be think he’s finally right, but I’m not going to be enthralled by those prophecies even now  _ Jae promised himself.  _ I’m going to do what I can to protect my family because it is the right thing to do, not because some long dead seer said so.  _

 

“Jon?” Robb called out. His cousin placed a sticky hand on the back of Jae’s fingers, and worry shone in his summer blue eyes. 

 

“Sorry,” he said, giving him and Uncle Ned a weak smile. “Well in all honesty,” he partially lied, “I wasn’t sure I could bond to an egg. Dragon dreamers rarely become dragon riders, look at Daenys, she never bonded to a dragon.” There was some truth to that, Daenys did warn him that he may be blood of the dragon, but not all Valyrians rode them. “Not to mention that I wasn’t sure if it was possible anymore. Dragons had died out generations ago. Several Targaryens who remember Valyria were convinced that we lost the gift to do so.” 

 

_ Our arrogance angered the gods, so they took Valyria, _ Daenys said back then.  _ Now it has cost us our dragons.  _

 

Uncle Ned gave him a solemn nod, and Robb’s face mirrored his father’s. 

 

“What do you speak of, Jaehaerys?” Bran the Builder asked in the Old Tongue. His deep baritone caused Jae to jump and turn behind him to face his ancestor. Bran the Builder was looking curiously at him, and from his side Cona gave him a sympathetic smile. 

 

“About the egg,” he lamely explained, scrunching up his shoulders sheepishly. 

 

The Builder nodded. “Fire dragons,” he murmured, shaking his head a bit. “If only we had one last time. Seems far more useful than the ice dragons roaming around back then.” 

 

Jae’s mouth swung open. “Ice dragons are real?” he asked in a rush of air. 

 

Bran the Builder looked to Cona and gave him a strange look. “Yes,” he said slowly, “this is the second time we’ve spoken of them to you.” 

 

Jae blinked and kicked himself for focusing so much on the egg in his hands earlier when he recalled that Cona just spoke of them moments ago. 

 

The Builder seemed to pay Jae no mind as he began to stroke his beard with a thoughtful look on his face. “Hard to find, ice dragons. They can change to ice or cold water,” he recalled. Jae’s eyes were wide at the words. 

 

“They usually lived near the Lands of Always Winter,” Cona tacked on, nodding with her husbands words. “Many of them fled when the Others came down.” 

 

Jae’s mind was swimming.  _ Ice dragons are real, ice dragons are real.  _ He shook his head to clear his thoughts. 

 

“Well,” Jae said, frowning as reality settled back on him. “This egg won’t hatch until its ready. And it’ll take a bit of time for a dragon to grow. What needs to be done now to face against the armies of the dead?” 

 

Bran the Builder grew grim, and Cona’s smile vanished as grief clouded her red eyes. The Builder ceased his stroking and looked at Jae with his intense eyes. “Cona told me that there is no Keeper for you Starks,” he gruffly said. “That Eddard here,” he pointed at Uncle Ned who flinched at the gesture, “has yet to choose one.” 

 

Jae was confused. Keeper? Keeper of what?

 

Then the Builder moved his his hand and placed the chilly appendage on Jae’s shoulder. “You were the first to hear my warning,” Bran the Builder said. “You are the first in generations to speak our tongue and read the runes of the Men who first came to these lands of ancient magic. I name you, Jaehaerys son of Lyanna, to be the Secret Keeper to the Stark who holds Winterfell. I charge you to learn the secrets I and those after me built here, to protect and pass on these secrets to the next generation.” 

 

“Brandon chose Jaehaerys to be your Keeper, child,” Cona said to Uncle Ned in Westerosi, as she walked to stand between him and Jae. “Are you agreeable to that?” she asked Jae’s living uncle. 

 

Uncle Ned looked shocked then thoughtful, but Jae thought he saw his lips twitch in a faint smile. “Aye,” he eventually said, seriously. “I’m agreeable to that,” he tacked on. He gave Jae an approving nod, and that small smile when he was feeling proud of his children. 

 

Jae felt confusion and elation tumble inside him. 

 

Robb silently cheered, giving Jae a wide grin that must’ve hurt his cheeks. He came towards Jae, hugging him and roughly ruffling his dark hair, leaving sticky globs in it and taking loose strands out. But Jae still smiled at his cousin.

 

“You’ve begun to wake the runes,” Cona said, again in the Westerosi Tongue. “It is a good start,” she commended, giving them a nod. 

 

“Begun?” Jae repeated in confusion. He turned to face the Builder again. “What is going on with the runes?” he asked in the Old Tongue. 

 

“Eddard woke the first set of runes with the piece of the key he holds,” Bran the Builder explained, his eyes grew distant cold and lonely. “Those runes I carved to keep the Others from turning my wife’s body.” 

 

Jae gasped at the words. Cona pranced next to him, and held her husband’s hand with her own, but the Builder’s eyes were still lost in that long ago winter. She frowned sadly up at her husband before suddenly jumping very high. The Builder was startled, but he wrapped his thick arms around Cona. She ran her hands through his beard and looked the Builder square in the eye, a deep ruby red meeting steely gray. 

 

“And for that I am forever grateful,” she told her husband, her voice and eyes earnest. “The work you and our son did keeps not only me but all our descendants’ bodies from being wights.” She put her nose against his, and held his cheek in hand. “But we must tell them about the key, about the stars, the Wall,” she stroked his cheek with the pad of her thumb “and about the Night King.” 

 

Bran the Builder went rigid, and his eyes grew grim and cold. “Do not speak of him, Cona,” he hissed, tightening  his arms around her like a snake. 

 

Cona narrowed her eyes at him and bared her fangs. “They must know,” she growled, grasping his shoulders. “They must know why they must take charge against the King of the Others. You may not wish it but it must be said.” 

 

He grimaced, and scowled at her words. The two glared at each other for an uncomfortable span of time before the Builder huffed and set Cona down to her small, three digited feet. “Tell them what you wish,” he barked, “I’ll not hear any mention of him.” And with those words the Builder vanished. 

 

“What was that about?” Robb asked, looking in concern and a dash frightful at Jae. Jae shared his look and turned to face Cona. 

 

Cona gave a weary sigh, and a sad glance to where her husband had dissipated. “Put that egg somewhere safe, Jaehaerys son of Lyanna,” she said, “for you three have much to hear.” She turned to look at them, and her vibrant ruby eyes were forlorn. “Meet me at the Heart tree.” And with those words she too vanished. 

 

The three living people shared concerned looks. “Where are you going to put that?” Uncle Ned asked Jae, pointing at the egg. 

 

Jae looked down at the egg, ran his thumbs over the scales. He doesn’t trust his room to be free from prying eyes, not with Lady Stark and the Septa mistrusting him so much. And many of the less frequented places around Winterfell are in disrepair. The Crypts are probably his safest place, after all Bael the Bard hid here with his woman and son down here for a year. “I think I’ll leave it here in the Crypts,” he told his uncle. 

 

Uncle Ned frowned, Robb too. “Why not in my solar?” Uncle Ned asked. “There are many hidden caches there, If we move some of the books and scrolls we can find room for your egg.” 

 

Jae blinked, surprised more than he’d like to admit. “I-” he gulped, “If you’re okay with that?” he asked, not quite believing his uncle’s words. 

 

Uncle Ned looked taken aback by his question, and Jae shrinked back slightly. “Wouldn’t it be more convenient than having to come down here constantly to check on the egg?” Uncle Ned asked, raising an eyebrow at him. 

 

“I thought you wouldn’t want it inside the Keep,” Jae admitted in a low voice. His mind recalling tales told to him by his ancestors, and the truths that died with them.

 

“Why would we want it out here?” Robb asked, mirroring Uncle Ned’s expression. 

 

“Summerhall,” was Jae’s  grim response. 

 

Both Robb and his uncle grimaced. “But you won’t be using fire like Aegon the Unlikely did to bring the egg to life,” Robb countered. “You’ll just be keeping hidden in the Solar.” 

 

Jae blinked and felt his blood run hot and cold at his cousin’s words. “You both think my great great grandfather set Summerhall ablaze?” he asked in a low voice laced with disbelief. He held the egg closer to his chest. 

 

“Not intentionally,” Uncle Ned clarified, before studying Jae’s face. “But I’m guessing by your question that the accident was caused by someone else?” 

 

“It was no accident,” Jae hissed, his words venomous. Uncle Ned and Robb jumped back at his tone. “He may have hated Aerion, but he learned from him that even we can burn. He never wanted to put his loved ones at risk, especially his friend Ser Duncan. King Aegon took many precautions to prevent the fire from getting out of hand.” 

 

“Who did it?” Uncle Ned asked in concern, worry clear in his voice and gray eyes. “Who set Summerhall ablaze and killed King Aegon and his heir?”

 

“The maester,” Jae admitted in a snarl. “There is a faction within the Maesters that vowed to remove magic from the world. The maester of Summerhall burned the castle to prevent any chance of magic returning to our House.” 

 

Robb stood there gaping at the admission. “How did he escape his crime?” Uncle Ned demanded to know, cross at the deceit and dishonor. 

 

“He burned with the castle,” Jae said without a shred of remorse for the man, shrugging his shoulders. 

 

“But what about the conspiracy within the Maesters?” Robb asked, his own Northern sensibilities rankled by the covert actions. “Don’t they swear vows to remain neutral?” 

 

Jae shrugged, but his blood was still hot. “Brothers of the Night’s Watch swear vows of abstinence and yet some go on to rape the people who live Beyond the Wall,” he retorted. 

 

“There is honor in the Watch,” his uncle growled, narrowing his eyes. 

 

Jae narrowed his own. “Only the North remembers that. The South see a penal colony to turn their murderers and rapists on the First Men who live on the other side of the Wall,” he bit back. “The Watch is a sham of what it once was Uncle. Uncle Benjen is one of the few good men there.” 

 

After the words left him, Jae felt his blood freeze. He looked to his uncle with wide eyes. “He’s the First Ranger,” Jae murmured.  _ If the Others and their wights are back, he’ll come across them.  _

 

Uncle Ned and Robb both paled rapidly, and fear shone in their eyes. “There are wights and Others out there!” Robb shouted. “Father, we can’t let Uncle Benjen become-”

 

“I know Robb,” Uncle Ned gruffly said, hand over his mouth as he looked stricken by his own thoughts. It was tense and silent as their breathing was fast paced. “We’re going to meet Cona and then go to my solar,” he announced to them. “And bring that egg, Jon.” 

 

Jae nodded and followed his uncle and cousin to the upper levels of the crypts. When they got to the level where Mother Lyanna was buried they stopped by her tomb. Balerion was curled up next to Rhaenys. 

 

Balerion got up and meowed loudly at them. Rhaenys looked up and smiled at Jae with a big toothy grin. “Jae!” she happily cried. 

 

Seeing his sister loosened the anxious knot in his belly. He relaxed slightly and smiled back at her. “Rhaenys!” he called back, just as happily. She jumped and hugged him, and he returned it with a laugh. 

 

“Mama says you got a dragon egg now!” she chirped. He nodded and showed the egg to her with a wide grin. She ogled the egg, pressing her small fingers lightly against the scales. “It’s pretty,” she declared. “And you should have had one years ago like I did.” 

 

“Maybe but remember big sister, dragon eggs are hard to find now. Father gave you his and was looking for Egg’s egg,” Jae reminded. His sister just rolled her eyes and hugged him tightly. 

 

Then she peered around him and saw Uncle Ned and Robb standing there with open mouths. She frowned. “Uncle Ned, Robb,” Jae began, gesturing to his older sister with a jerk of his head. “This is my older sister Rhaenys.” They managed to utter a greeting to her. 

 

She gave them all a heavy stare, and tightened her hug around his middle. “They can see now?” she asked in a whisper of Valyrian. Jae nodded. She pulled the same frown father has when he isn’t pleased, but she acknowledged them with a nod. 

 

“Can you take Balerion back to my room?” Jae asked his sister. She smiled and nodded. “Come along Balerion,” she called to the cat. Balerion harrumphed and rose to his paws. Rhaenys gave Jae a quick peck on the cheek before marching away like a general leading her army. The cat made another gruff noise before following after his sister out of the Crypts. 

 

Robb made an indignant noise. “How can she do that?” Robb asked incredulous. “The cat hates everyone except you, Arya and Rickon.” 

 

“Enough about the cat,” Uncle Ned cut in, his voice commanding the attention of the two boys. “To the Heart tree.” 

 

Jae nodded and followed his uncle out of the crypts with the egg in his hands. It was dark, the sky was a rich blue-black speckled with twinkling stars that soared above their heads. 

 

He knew that nothing would be as it used to, but it felt so odd now. He couldn’t shake that feeling as he held the egg protectively in his hands. Uncle Ned was determined to get to the Heart tree, walking at a quick pace that Jae had to almost jog at to keep up with. 

 

They made their way to the Heart tree, the night making the red leaves look a deep purple. Jae spotted Cona sitting at the base of the tree in the same spot Uncle Ned always sits and next to her was the direwolf that led him to Bran the Builder and Cona’s tomb. Her red, cat like eyes were like embers, showing them where to go. 

 

“Come and sit children,” she beckoned in that songlike voice of hers. “There is much to tell you.” Jae felt a bit jumbled still at The Builder himself appointing him, trusting him, to learn and protect the secrets of Mother Lyanna’s family. They all sat around her, the earth cool beneath them, and the egg warm in Jae’s lap. The direwolf looked at the three with a curious gaze, but she didn’t move from where she lay next to Cona. None of them shivered in the cool night air. 

 

As his eyes adjusted more to the dark, Jae saw the wary expression on her face, and the haunted look of her eyes as she stroked the fur of the direwolf ghost. She turned her gaze upwards, her eyes flicking between the stars.

 

“The stars paint pictures that tell stories,” she said evenly, continuing to pet the direwolf. “Depending on how you read them, you can see warnings in them.” 

 

_ ‘Has he read the stars and heard the winds?’ Bran the Builder asked.  _ Jae felt his breath hitch in his throat. Robb looked at him, concern on his face. 

 

Cona paid him no mind and pointed to the sky. “What star picture do you see there?” she asked. Jae, Robb and Uncle Ned followed her clawed finger to the heavens. It was hard at first to see with the many stars, but it became clear. 

 

“The Shepard’s Crook,” Uncle Ned answered. 

 

“Brandon’s people read the stars and named it that. My people called it the Seer’s Staff. Regardless of name, his people learned the warning those stars there speak of,” Cona said. “Look to the bottom of that star picture,” she moved her finger to the bottom of the Crook. 

 

Jae squinted hard to see what she was getting at. “Was that star always at the bottom?” he asked, squinting at the sky.

 

“No,”  Cona answered, her voice low and sad, “that star is one of three. The last time three stars shone there, the Long Night befell us all.” 

 

The three living gasped and stared at the sky in fear. Jae knows that the ghosts warn him about the return of the Long Night, but seeing the star made it seem so much more inevitable. He gripped the egg tightly in his hands, it pulsed in time with his rapidly pounding heart. 

 

“Brandon told our son this,” she continued, her voice forlorn despite the small smile gracing her dark lips, “when the crook becomes a scythe, harvest your crops and arm yourself for winter is coming.” 

 

_ Winter is coming… _

 

“How do we prepare for this?” Uncle Ned finally asked, his voice heavy and weary. Jae looked over to him, and he saw his uncle look more worn than he’d ever seen. And something about the way his shoulders sagged reminded him of his father. 

 

“The key you carry,” Cona said to Uncle Ned. At the mention he took the necklace out, and to Jae’s shock the engravings on it glowed a vibrant blue, illuminating their spot by the heart tree like a little blue star. “When it was whole, Brandon used that as a key to wake the protections.”

 

“Protections?” Robb asked her. 

 

“You saw my crypt,” she said, “the runes are a magic Brandon’s people brought with them to these lands. The spiral, however is the most powerful sigil used in magic created by my people.” The blue glow showed her drawing a spiral into the dirt with a claw. “Brandon and I combined the magics we both carried. He hailed from a family that used rune magic, I am a skinchanger and daughter of a powerful greenseer, our son was gifted with all of that magic so he and Brandon created protections he and his descendants could use.”

 

The direwolf gave a content huff, licking Cona’s dappled face. “Wargs,” Robb whispered, awestruck, his blue eyes wide and clear. 

 

“What did they make with that magic?” Jae found himself asking, enthralled by the mention of magic. 

 

“The runes that protect this place where the winter fell, the crypts where Brandon buried my bones. The Wall was done largely by Brandon alone with rune magic, but our son said he added one protection to the Wall before he too passed, ” she listed, her voice and eyes distant in memories of a long ago age. 

 

“You said when the key was whole,” Robb said, his brows furrowed in thought. “Where is the rest of it?” 

 

“I do not know,” she admitted. “One of your ancestors will have the answer, but when I gave that piece of obsidian to my son it was whole.” 

 

“What can we do with this piece of the key?” Uncle Ned asked, holding the broken necklace of dragonglass out. The etchings on them glowed a vibrant sky blue, illuminating their spot. 

 

“Not as much as we would like,” she grumbled, and the direwolf rumbled too. “You managed to wake the runes that lay in my crypt, but you won’t be able to do much else with the other protections with only that.” 

 

Jae grimaced.  _ What rotten luck this is... _ “Why’d you specifically ask for us to come tonight?” Jae asked, curious about her stipulation before bringing Uncle Ned and Robb down to her. 

 

“The moon was the same as when those runes were completed,” she said. “You’ll have to wake the other protections on the same moons they were completed on.” 

 

“Why?” Uncle Ned asked. 

 

She pointed to the spiral she drew in the dirt. “This,” she said. “Brandon told me the way his people view time moving, the way life goes, is from a start to an end,” at those words she drew a straight line in the dirt next  to the spiral. “But my people, we see time and life as a cycle,” she pointed again to the spiral. “Everything will happen again. Things repeat again and again, because nothing truly ends. To wake the runes in my crypt, to see those who’ve come back, you needed to come again when the time was the same all those years ago.” 

 

Jae sat there in awe, the weight of her words coming to him in waves. He felt the egg’s warmth pulse. His mind wandered to the history of his House, and their decline. And a traitorous thought entered his mind:  _ Was that prophecy right after all, three heads bringing dragons back into the world? _

 

Cona gave the three of them a weary look, like she was very tired. She sighed and the direwolf whimpered before laying her large head in Cona’s lap. “The Night King is someone Brandon does not wish to speak of,” she said, giving soothing strokes to the furry ghost head. 

 

“Why?” Jae found himself asking, leaning in like a boy listening to Old Nan.

 

“He is the first of the Others,” she regaled grimly. “We know little of how that came to be, but the reason why Brandon is reluctant to speak of him is because of who the Night King was before.” 

 

“Before?” Uncle Ned echoed, warily curious. 

 

“We knew him before he became the monster he is now,” Cona elaborated, stoking the head of the direwolf. 

 

“Who was he?” Robb asked. 

 

“I imagine you children know little of Brandon’s past,” the Child of the Forest stated. “His father was one of the Men who swore in the Pact to create peace with my people. To keep the peace, I chose Brandon as mine and he in turn chose me,” a fond smile graced her dark lips. “His brothers made no such choices.” 

 

“He has brothers?” Robb eagerly asked, leaning closer and nearly folding in on himself like Rickon does when listening to old stories. 

 

“Two, one older and one younger,” she answered with a nod. “His younger brother was very brave. When the Long Night fell, I sent his brother to seek the help of my people and the giants. Sadly he was the only one of his companions to survive the trek, but we aided his people to drive the dead to the Lands of Always Winter.” 

 

_ That sounded really familiar…  _

 

“Bran the Builder is brother to the Last Hero!?” Jae gasped. Robb and Uncle Ned gazed between his gobsmacked expression to Cona’s nod with open mouths. 

 

“He went on to form a sort of guard for the Wall,” she mused aloud. “Swore to watch for the night to come again.” 

 

“The Last Hero formed the Night’s Watch,” Uncle Ned puzzled together with wide gray eyes. “Bran the Builder built the Wall and his brother went to watch over it.” 

 

_ Uncle Benjen may get a shock if he learns that,  _ Jae told himself. He felt the egg thrum in his palms, and he felt a sense of calm, focusing his mind somewhat. 

 

“What became of his older brother if the younger became the Last Hero?” Robb asked. 

 

Cona winced and moved a hand back to the dirt, drawing symbols that made no sense to Jae’s mind. “He had very powerful magic,” Cona began, her voice low as if telling a secret “the strongest magic of the three. He had little love for my people and wasn’t pleased by the Pact, but he honored his father’s promise to make peace. One day he declared he would travel farther north to find a place for him to settle down.”

 

Jae felt the cold sense of foreboding in his bones, unconsciously leaning into Robb as he cradled the egg closer to his chest. 

 

“We had not seen him again until that winter,” she continued in a hush. “And when we did he was not himself. He was as pale as a corpse and blue with cold. All color seemed drained from him but ice blue and bone white...even his eyes burned blue.” 

 

Robb and Uncle Ned jolted at the description. Jae’s mind was pacing to make connections and when he did he felt sick to his stomach. 

 

“Whatever happened to him is something I fear to learn of,” Cona continued, shuddering and nestling closer to the she-wolf. “And it also cursed his companions. They were all like that, they were all Others. And Brandon’s brother was their king.” 

 

It was silent as her words hung heavy in the air, even the winds were silent to her information. Jae was unsure of what to do, unsure of what to say to something so shocking. 

 

“Bran the Builder and the Last Hero fought against their own brother?” Uncle Ned finally asked. 

 

“They tried,” Cona eventually answered, “but they didn’t kill him. That’s why the Wall was built and why Vakren went on to watch for the Night King’s return.” Cona turned her gaze to where the great keep stood. “This is where they defeated him and drove their brother far, far away. This is where the winter fell.” 

 

Jae turned his gaze and saw the sky lighten over the trees and towers from starry near black to a velvety blue with the faint strokes of pale pink and orange at the edge. “Dawn is a precious time, children,” Cona said, her voice calm as the colors overhead warmed. “Find the rest of the key. Wake the protections. Prepare for the night and fight for your next dawn.” As the sun crested over the lands of Winterfell Cona and her direwolf faded in the sunlight like mist. 

 

Jae leaned against Robb, slack with shock. Uncle Ned  went over to the Gods Pool and splashed cold water on his long face, wetting his beard and he groaned as he resumed his usual spot at the heart tree. 

 

The three sat there for a brief moment, as they all absorbed what Cona confided in them. Jae felt Robb rub his arm, his face pallid. 

 

“How could all that information be lost?” Robb finally asked. “So much should have been passed to us before all this came about.” 

 

“Lots of reasons,” Jae mumbled. “Obviously some ancestors took knowledge to their graves, intentional or not. Within two generations so much knowledge was lost because of what happened to our grandfather and uncle, imagine what ten thousand years could have brought about.” 

 

“Let’s continue this in the solar,” Uncle Ned said, groaning as he rose from his seat. Robb and Jae got up, Robb giving a hand to Jae. 

 

“Why are you sticky?” Jae asked, frowning at the tacky red substance on his cousin and uncle. “What is that on your faces?” 

 

Uncle Ned urged them forward with his hands on their backs. “Weirwood sap,” Robb answered as they quickly walked back to the great keep. 

 

“Sap?” Jae asked, raising a brow at his cousin. As they walked the halls of Winterfell Robb explained in low whispers how the sap got in their eyes, and afterwards they were able to see Cona and the other ghosts. 

 

As they entered the solar dawn lit the room with a palette of soft colors. Robb described the vision he and Uncle Ned shared Beyond the Wall. Uncle Ned locked his solar and added sparse, but grim details to Robb’s description as Jae felt sick to his stomach. The cold, the dead, the Other… he shuddered just trying to imagine it and his heart panged for the two here who did see it. 

 

“Let’s find a spot for that egg,” his uncle urged, still pallid from his recollection. He walked over to a tapestry that had a loose stone that was thinner than the rest and had a cut corner to grasp. “If we move the box that was in here, it should be large enough for your egg, Jon.” He held the tapestry open for him. 

 

Jae walked over and felt his stomach roil. He got to his knees and slowly moved the egg into the empty space. The gap was warm, no doubt from the pipes of warm water that heated the castle, and that gave Jae a strange sense of comfort. It wasn’t a snug fit, and thankfully the egg didn’t teter and roll as he slowly moved the thinner stone back into place. 

 

As Uncle Ned moved the tapestry back into place, Robb gasped and Jae heard him stagger. Jae and Uncle Ned jolted, turning to face Robb at risk of whiplash. 

 

Standing in the solar was a familiar ghost. “Torrhen!?” Jae called out in surprise. The King who Knelt was grim and shamefaced, as he stood before the three of them. “Jae,” he returned with a nod, “Lord Eddard, Heir Robert,” he greeted with low nods. 

 

“What brings you here now, King Torrhen?” Jae asked, seeing that Uncle Ned’s moving jaw was failing to form the question himself. 

 

“You’re the King who Knelt?” Robb asked in shock and wonder. Jae knows very well that Torrhen Stark, this Torrhen Stark, is one of Robb’s favorite ancestors, often played pretend as him with Jae as Brandon Snow.

 

The ghost grimaced, running a hand through his crownless locks. “I came by earlier,” the ghost remarked. “I saw that you took the Key with you to our ancestors down in the crypts.” 

 

“Do you know why the Key is broken?” Uncle Ned asked respectfully, holding the aforementioned object out on a stretched palm. The marks still glowed, their color and vibrancy brighter than any torch. 

 

“I do,” the former king affirmed with a nod as he gazed at the necklace. “I was the one to break it.” 

 

Jae swayed as if he was punched in the gut. Robb was gaping at the ghost like a fish out of water. Uncle Ned gave their ancestor a disbelieving look. “You...broke it?” Uncle Ned spluttered. 

 

The last King in the North looked shamefaced as he nodded. “Why?” Robb asked in disbelief. 

 

The ghost gave a heavy sigh, running a large hand over his long face. “I was young and scared,” the ghost said, looking at the three with a guilty glance. “I have no excuse to give to you three, not with the Long Night coming, but please let me tell you what I did and where the other half of the key went.” 

 

It was tense and they all took a seat facing one another. The ghost ran a hand down his face again. “When Aegon came with his sisters atop their dragons I knew that it would be folly to try and fight them. My brother Brand, you may know him as Brandon Snow, was upset when I bent the knee to the Targaryens.” 

 

Jae shifted uncomfortably in his seat, looking away from his ancestor. “I don’t begrudge you for that Jae,” Torrhen Stark said, patting Jae’s hand lightly “I told you before that I didn’t and I still don’t.” Jae still felt uneasy, but quirked a small crooked smile to the ghost. 

 

“Anyway,” Torrhen continued, looking back to Uncle Ned and Robb. “Brand and I fought about my decision for days. One day, Brand came here,” he gestured around the solar with an open palm, “and he told me that he decided to not stay in the North. He gave me the Key back and told me that he was no longer my Secret Keeper and wouldn’t be until Aegon returned my crown to me.” 

 

And the former king looked crestfallen, his gray eyes glistening with his memories. “I know to you it must seem foolish, but Brand was always someone I held dear in my heart. Our father decided to make him my Secret Keeper and advised me to make him my steward not only because we were raised together from the cradle, but also because Brand was gifted with the greensight.” 

 

Jae felt his jaw go slack.  _ Cona said we got that from her blood…  _

 

“Brand knew many things, and I came to rely heavily upon him. The reality that I wasn’t going to see him again terrified me, made me do rash things. As he and those who agreed with his stance were boarding their ships in White Harbor, I smashed that Key with a hammer.” Torrhen’s eyes were distant in memory. “When I gave him half of it he was furious. He looked like he wanted to punch me,” he recollected with a chuckle. 

 

“Before setting sail, Brand told me this,” the ghost continued, drowning in memories flickering behind his closed eyes. “‘We will come back, we always would have Tor. I told you Aegon Targaryen would give the wolves back the crown of swords, I’ve seen it. Now, you make me promise you to come back with half the Key when the Others come again when I would have done so with just a summons. The pack looks out for each other, you needn’t have done this.’”

 

“What happened to Brand?” Robb asked, intrigued, leaning forward on his elbows. 

 

“That was the last time I saw his face. I later heard that he and his men formed the Company of the Rose. I told him that this would bring him back home, that when the runes woke he’d be compelled to come back to protect the North,” Torrhen shook his head, shame and regret painting his long bearded face. “I was so young and foolish. I’ve put you all in jeopardy because of my selfishness.” 

 

“Selfish?” Robb asked in a whisper. 

 

“When he said he saw Aegon the Conqueror giving the crown back,” Uncle Ned interrupted, “was that the greensight you said he had?” 

 

“Aye,” the king affirmed. “He told me these exact words. ‘A red dragon named Aegon Targaryen came to Winterfell, the wolf bowed before him and the dragon placed the Crown of Winter atop the wolf’s head.’”

 

Jae felt his heart stop. _‘I can give them their crowns back!”_ _Egg shouted._ His mind swarmed with thoughts. _Should I tell Egg about Brandon Snow’s vision? Egg hates prophecies and is skeptical of anything I haven’t dreamed of myself._ Jae frowned at his train of thought. _No,_ he decided, _we swore we’d not be bound by other people’s dreams and visions but our own. I won’t say anything of this._

 

“Jon,” Robb called out, shaking his shoulder with a sap stained hand. 

 

“What?” he asked, finding the rest of them looking at him. He looked from one curious face to the other. 

 

“Your uncle said you dreamed of Jon Arryn’s murder,” Torrhen stated, causing Robb to splutter aghast. “Have you dreamed of anything else of late?” 

 

“I talked with Egg when I fell asleep in the Crypts,” Jae admitted, scratching his cheek.  _ Egg. _ An idea sparked in his head and he looked to the ghost. “You said the other half of the Key was left with the Company of the Rose.” 

 

“As far as I know it still is,” the crownless king said with a mild nod. 

 

“I can have Egg find them,” Jae announced. “ _ Lēkia _ is in Volantis now, I can have him find out where the Company is and Lord Stark can send a message to them, asking about the Key.” 

 

“Leh-ki-ya?” Robb asked with furrowed brows, his pronunciation making Jae cringe slightly. 

 

“Older brother,” Jae translated, sheepishly before turning back to Uncle Ned and Torrhen Stark. “He said he would take some time preparing to come here, I can have him ask about the companies whereabouts as he prepares.” 

 

Uncle Ned’s thoughtful look matched Torrhen’s. “That sounds like a good plan,” Robb said managing a strained smile. 

 

“That may be our best chance at finding the rest of the key,” Uncle Ned said, giving Jae an approving nod. 

 

“I’ll ask him when I next dream with him,” Jae said with a tired smile and a yawn. He felt the whole night crash down on him, any fear and adrenaline he had faded away, leaving him wanting nothing more than a chance to sleep. And dream.

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think of having longer chapters. Also I plan to have another update up by next week and I will do my best to meet my deadline. Thank you!


	16. Aegon III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aegon's trip to the Volantene market doesn't go as he initially planned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again for the late update! I overestimated myself. One week was too short a time period for me to write a chapter. I'm shooting for the next update to happen in two weeks. Sorry again for the long wait.

Egg was in the Godswood again. He blinked around in confusion and saw Jae. Somehow in the same night, Jae’s melancholy became palpable, the weary look in his tired eyes more pronounced than earlier. 

 

He felt his guts get cold as he hurried over to his brother who looked like he would fall over on his own feet. He held his hands out, ready to catch his brother if he needed to. 

 

“Jae, why are we back?” Egg asked, fighting down the flicker of panic that rose in his chest. Jae swayed a little, but stayed rooted. 

 

“I must have fallen asleep again,” Jae mumbled. He shook his head, some of his raven locks hitting Egg. “Listen, there’s something really important you need to do.” Jae grabbed his shoulders, and looked at him with pleading eyes.  _ “Kostilus, lēkia,”   _ he asked.  _ Please brother. _

 

Egg felt uneasy about this but he nodded. 

 

“We need to make contact with the Company of the Rose,” Jae said, desperation coloring his words. “We stand a slim chance against the Others without them.” 

 

Egg grimaced. He understands their reasons for leaving Westeros, but as a Targaryen and one named for the Conqueror to boot, he can’t help but feel unnerved at the idea of contacting them. 

 

“Lord Stark justs wants you to find out where they are so he can send them a message,” Jae elaborated, his eyebrows furrowing at Egg’s face. 

 

Egg took a deep breath and began to reason with himself.  _  Just asking about their whereabouts is harmless. No one will know an Aegon Targaryen is looking for them, I just have to ask around the docks and markets.  _ He nodded. “Alright,” he told his brother, “I will see if I can find them.” 

 

Jae blinked once, twice before giving a relieved smile that loosened him up. He hugged Egg and whispered his thanks. Egg hugged him back, and found himself wishing he was with Jae in Winterfell. 

 

He woke and got up from his bed aboard the Shy Maid with a groan. He recalled the two dreams he shared with Jae last night, and his promises to go North and help. His recollections gave him a surge of energy. He got dressed quickly taking a small coin purse that he fastened to his belt and kept it hidden under a red sash. He checked a polished metal mirror, making note that his roots have started to show again. 

 

He had a plan now to go about the task his brother was depending on him to complete. 

 

He walked to the kitchen and quickly got himself a day old roll. It wouldn’t keep him full for long, but should tide him over until he gets to the market. He bit into it and went up on the deck. As the breeze hit his face he felt that pull to go east again. It nagged at the back of his mind like an itch, making his skin feel dry and his throat parched. 

 

He shook his head and began making his way to the gangplank when he came across Septa Lenore. “Good morning, Septa,” he greeted warmly after swallowing his mouthful of spit. 

 

“Good morning Your Grace,” she said softly, her voice having the faintest trace of a familiar accent, giving him a polite curtsey. “Are you going ashore, Your Grace?” she asked him, giving him a curious look. 

 

He nodded. “I am. I need to get some more dye,” he explained, showing her the silvery roots of his hair. 

 

“Alone, Your Grace?” she asked. 

 

Egg flicked his gaze to the side. The ghost of Ser Arthur Dayne was standing next to him, looking grim, but there was a sadness to his gaze as he looked between Egg and the septa. He found little happiness in death, feeling guilt for dying when he did. Egg, Jae and Father never blamed him, but the former Sword of Morning seems to make his own burden to carry. 

 

“Alone,” was his response when he looked back to Septa Lenore. 

 

She looked thoughtful and nodded. “I would recommend, if I may Your Grace, that you return before sundown. Jon Connington spoke of having a meeting with other members of the Golden Company.” She frowned at the name, and he did too.

 

Egg nodded, feeling his guts turn. “Thank you Septa,” he said before going down the gangplank with the Ser Arthur Dayne trailing behind him. The pull felt stronger now. More commanding with every step he took. 

 

“I still have no idea why Connington thought the Golden Company was a good idea,” the ghost mumbled. “The bloody group was founded by Bittersteel of all the bastards. He knows well the dangers of the Blackfyres, why, by the Old Gods and the New, did he bring you to this lot?”

 

Egg  grimaced. It seems odd, and he’s unhappy that people will be able to discredit him as a Blackfyre pretender all because Connington took him to them. But seeing Ser Arthur complain about the Blackfyres gave Egg an idea. 

 

“Arthur,” he asked in a whisper, passing some graybeard that smells of the sea. “Can you go, and find the sword Blackfyre?” he asked sidestepping an incoming fishwife. 

 

Ser Arthur stayed near him, but gave a thoughtful glance back to the Shy Maid. 

 

Egg had overheard more than one drunken admission over the years that they still had the Valyrian steel sword. Egg had tried finding it, but there are a few rooms and spaces members of the Golden Company keep under heavy guard. As a boy, the guards bearing the gilded skulls of the Golden Company scared him away from finding the ancient blade. 

 

But now, with the dead coming back, he’s going to need a good sword, and Blackfyre is supposed to be a Targaryen blade. 

 

Arthur frowned and his lilac eyes were conflicted. “We’ll get on it Your Grace,” the former Kingsguard eventually replied before vanishing like sea mist. 

 

Egg sighed. He does care about Jon, he does. But he knows the man’s flaws. His blind belief in Egg’s right to rule because of his love for Father, his bitterness and disdain for all who sided with the rebels because of his love for Father. Egg cares for him, but he knows that Jon’s plans and views are not what he needs now. 

 

And Ser Arthur was a man who was thrust into tough situations before his early death. Forced to obey a mad king and let the gentle queen suffer. Believing he failed his best friend by not protecting Princess Elia and the children with her and believing he failed his best friend by dying when Eddard Stark and Howland Reed killed him when he was protecting Jae and Princess Lyanna. He’s as haunted by his past as Jae and Egg are haunted by him. 

 

He sighed at his thoughts. “Who knows how the mind of a grieving man works?” he asked in a hush as he went down the dock to the shore, passing next to a short haired woman in sailor’s clothes.  

 

He hung around the docks. He was asking some merchant sailors about any passages to Westeros. There were few and fewer still were going anywhere near White Harbor. “Try catching a ship in Braavos,” one grizzled sailor missing a hand told him. “Much closer, more trading done between the two. They’re too far north for us to go anytime soon.” 

 

He sighed, and gave the old man a coin for his advice.  _ Best start asking for a ship to Braavos after I eat,  _ he decided.

 

Since it was early morning, market stalls and shops were beginning to open. He walked the streets hearing bustling and bartering, and smelled spiced foods and drinks being prepared for the first sales of the day. His mouth watered as he got a whiff of roasted aroch meat. The pull in his mind tugging more insistently. He barely managed to ignore the instinctual need to move to buy some food. The Volantene who ran the aroch booth was generous with the spices, but had no helpful news of the Company. 

 

From another local vendor he bought a skewer of grilled fruit, and they had no news of the Company of the Rose. He moved past a stall selling juice that claims it will put a fire in a man’s loins, to an old woman selling flaky pastries filled with nuts and sugar who also had little news worth listening to. 

 

As he licked his fingers clean he saw something red in the corner of his eye. He turned and stood in horror as he spotted a Red Priestess walking through the market. Her hair was such a color he was convinced she dyed it in blood, and he saw that her eyes were like yellow embers in a fire. She walked to a corner and stood there, facing the market goers and Egg. 

 

“There is only one god!” she exalted, her smile wide and her eyes unnerving. “The Lord of Light, R'hllor! He shall lead his followers from the shadows and into the light!” She held her arms out to her sides, roaming her eyes over the crowd she was gathering. Egg’s pastry felt rancid when she pinned her unsettling gaze upon him. “Accept the Lord of Light into your heart and burn away all false gods! Come into the light!” 

 

There was a wave of murmuring amongst the crowd and Egg slipped away to an alley. Thankfully, while dirty, it was free of people. He sucked in a shaky breath and let it out. He couldn’t see the priestess through all the people, but he didn’t smell burning so he felt himself calm down some.  _ There seem to be more of those zealots everytime we make port...  _

 

He shook his head and forced himself to take more deep breaths. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, letting all else fade from his mind. And he felt that pull in his mind, the nagging intuition to keep moving. It ebbed like a tide in the back of his mind. He suddenly smelled freshwater, could almost feel the cool water on his skin. 

 

He heard a loud noise and opened his eyes. He was in the dirty alley, and saw that someone threw some garbage into the street. Egg sighed and moved further into the town, feeling the nag in his mind grow more insistent. He shook his head and focused on getting the information he wanted. 

 

He entered the stalls that are mostly set up by merchants who hail from outside of Volantis. Traders from Myr selling glasswork, lace and other decadent delicates. Lyseni merchants selling heady perfumes, fine tapestries, beautiful bedslaves and most likely poisons in secret. 

 

He stopped by a Tyroshi booth and bought a month’s supply of blue hair dye, having to heckle the man for a fair price.

 

Carrying his intended purchase in a sack bag, he went to a Braavosi booth selling wafters drenched in rose syrup. As he was exchanging his coin for the treats, the vendor next to them began to talk as his slaves went to get him food. 

 

“Have you heard of the marriage in Pentos?” the man asked, his voice as oily as his black hair and his smell as ripe as the cheeses he sold. 

 

“What marriage?” Egg asked, taking a bite of his food. 

 

The Braavosi man nodded with Egg. “Marriages happen everyday,” the Braavosi dismissed with a wave of his hand. “Who in Pentos was so noticable?” 

 

“The Beggar King’s sister,” the Pentoshi said, his smile sharp as he beamed at them. 

 

Egg stopped mid bite.  _ Daenerys got married? Did she and Viserys finally marry each other?  _ He chewed his food and thoughts. 

 

“The Beggar King may have finally lost any sense he had,” the Pentoshi sniggered. “The boy sold his sister to be wife to Khal Drogo of the Great Grass Sea.” 

 

Egg choked on his wafer. He pounded on his chest and saw the surprise on the Braavosi’s face. 

 

“The Dothraki!?” Egg asked in shock. “He sold his sister to the Dothraki!?” He was raised in Essos and knows the talk of them. The Dothraki are a fearsome horde of fighters known best for raiding, raping and pillaging various parts of the eastern continent. 

 

“Word is that he gave the Khal a wife in exchange for an army to reclaim the Iron Throne,” the Pentoshi cheese vendor elaborated. 

 

Egg was rubbing his temple with his free hand.  _ But the Dothraki? A group of people who have never been on the sea? According to Mother Lyanna’s stories, the Children of the Forest destroyed the Arm of Dorne thousands of years ago when they warred with the First Men. How was he expecting them to cross into Westeros?  _

 

“Now that is madness and folly,” the Braavosi chortled. “The horse fuckers swear to never cross the ‘poisoned water.’” The two merchants shared a laugh and went about calling for customers. 

 

“I’d say he’d be more mad if he chose to barter with the Company of the Rose,” Egg interjected, seizing his chance. “The descendants of those who refused to be conquered by his ancestor. Trying to buy their swords would have been a tall order.” 

 

“Aye, perhaps,” the Braavosi said, after thanking his next customer. “Perhaps the thought actually crossed his mind before the Dothraki one.” 

 

“Where is the Company of the Rose anyhow?” Egg asked, taking a bite of his second wafer. “I’ve not heard any news of them in some time.” 

 

The Pentoshi shrugged. “Last I heard, acting on some contract in Tyrosh to deal with Lyseni pirates.”  __ The man began to converse with another customer, so he did not notice Egg’s tension. 

 

Egg nodded his head and woodily thanked the merchants for their time before walking off.  _ At least now I can tell Jae where to find the Company of the Rose. With any luck I can get Blackfyre, and find a ship that’ll get me to Westeros before Jon catches wind of this.  _

 

He stopped and hit his head with his fist.  _ Stop it Egg. You’re supposed to be a man, the Head of House Targaryen, stop worrying about what Jon will think like some snot nosed brat, and start acting like the man Jae needs you to be, the king he wants you to be. _

 

His dragonblood burned and refused to calm until he’d walked out of the town and managed to walk towards empty fields speckled with trees. He closed his eyes and breathed deep, willing himself to calm down. 

 

When his anger ended he quieted his mind. He felt the tug, it came in waves, and it called him. He could practically taste clean water on his tongue, and his skin almost felt cool, like he was drifting in water. 

 

When he opened his eyes again, he found that he unknowingly walked towards a river bank. But not just any river. Even without a map at hand he knew which river he stood at. The River Rhoyne. 

 

It was beautiful. 

 

The water was clearer than crystal. The reeds and flowers that lined the banks were vibrant in their hues. The river lapped in a delicate song that felt... familiar yet not, all at once. The giant turtle on the opposite bank was asleep, basking in the morning light. But the sight of the massive reptile didn’t scare him. The crabs in the mud didn’t scare him as they waved their pincers at his boots. 

 

The pull deafened his thoughts into a placid calm. Only intuition remained, beckoning him to step into the river. He slowly walked into the water. The water soaked his boots, and his trousers as he stepped deeper and deeper up to his waist. He blinked. 

 

He was underwater.  The dye leaching into the water, leaving clouds of deep blue where it went down with the current to go out into the Smoking Sea. He was shocked and scared, flailing his arms. But then he heard something. A voice. A woman like voice that came and went like a tide speaking in drowned whispers he couldn’t comprehend. 

 

And to his shock, he didn’t feel like he was dying. His lungs felt heavy with water, but it didn’t hurt. He felt awake. He saw turtles, the Old Men of the River, swim, snapping their massive mouths at crabs that were hiding in the mud below him. 

 

He felt the current of the river cradle him and take him through the water. He was shocked, but he didn’t feel panic. He saw the fish swim past him as he was gently carried by the river, farther away from the dye cloud. The arms of the current then lifted him up, and he broke the surface. 

 

He coughed up water and looked around. He wasn’t near where he entered the water, and he saw the blue dye going further down. “I went upstream,” he garbled as he spat more water out in shock. He treaded water, his mind reeling with shock and  dozen questions.  __

 

_ “You heard the Mother call you,”  _ a voice called next to him in Rhoynish _.  _

 

Standing in the water was another person, but they didn’t seem affected by the current. The water seemed to pass through them.  _ A ghost,  _ Egg realized. Under layers of sumptuous sunset colored silks was a beautiful person with olive skin and brown eyes and hair. They looked like Mother Elia. They looked like Rhaenys. But he was unsure if they were a woman.

 

_ “You heard the Mother call you,”  _ they said.  _ “Seems you are more than just fire and blood,”  _ they added with a smile. 

 

_ “Who are you?”  _ Egg asked as he treaded water. 

 

“Help!” a waterlogged voice screamed, not in Rhoynish. He turned and saw flailing arms in the middle of the water further upstream. It looked and sounded like a child. Egg steeled himself and began to swim. 

 

_ “Use the water,” _ the Rhoynish ghost said.  _ “Feel the water around you, and will it to carry you.”  _  the ghost scowled at him.  _ “You can’t swim there in time. Do as I say!”  _

 

Startled Egg closed his eyes. The water was around him, he felt it go over his face, his head.  _ I need to get upstream  _ he desperately thought, mouthing the words in the water when he repeated his thought _.  _ He felt the current strengthen as he was pushed upstream with such a force it frightened him. 

 

He saw the child thrashing in the water. He leaned some more and he was pushed, getting close enough to grab the child. He wrapped his arms around the kid. “We need to get up,” he said, his words becoming bubbles. He felt the current suddenly push him  _ up  _ and soon they broke the surface. 

 

He kicked them ashore and hauled the child onto the mud and put his ear to their mouth and chest. He heard nothing. Panicking, he was pushing on the small chest when a pair of dark, ghostly hands covered his.  _ “If you look, you can find it. If you wish it, you can move it,”  _ they whispered in Rhoynish.  

 

They held his hands on the child’s chest, but rather than push down they held his hands there. Egg gasped.  He could feel something settle inside the child’s chest unseen. It wasn’t moving, and didn’t feel deep. He could… he could feel the water inside the child. 

 

_ “If you look, you can find it. If you wish it, you can move it,”  _ they whispered again.  

 

“Please let this work,” he whispered as he concentrated hard on the water he felt. The ghost moved his hands. He felt the water move in a trickle. Water poured out of the child’s mouth and nose like a pitcher. 

 

When the pouring stopped the child coughed, and Egg fell on his ass. He stared down at his hands in shock. “Gods and Goddesses…” he whispered, not sure who to blaspheme. 

 

_ “The Mother Rhoyne has blessed you with this gift,”   _ the ghost happily cheered  _ “Just as she blessed me in life. You’re a water wizard Aegon Elmos Targaryen.”  _

 

Memories flooded Egg’s waterlogged mind as the Rhoynish ghost vanished. 

 

_ ‘Princess Nymeria came to Dorne with her ships and her water wizards,’ Mother Elia told him years ago as a sleep story. ‘They say her water wizards helped them find hidden pools and wells when she was conquering Dorne. Some say the Water Gardens are their most beautiful work, finding a hidden lake and bringing it to the surface to create the oasis.’  _

 

_ ‘They say, Egg,’ Mother Elia whispered, leaning close. ‘They say that while she herself didn’t have the water magic, her father did. And some say her descendants have that magic that skipped her.’ _

 

_ ‘Will Jae and I have it?” he asked. ‘He and I have the blood of Princess Nymeria running through our veins. Him from Father, and I from him and you.”  _

 

_ ‘Maybe Egg,’ Mother Elia whispered, kissing his forehead. ‘Maybe.’ _

 

When his mind returned to the present, he saw that there were more ghosts. Rhaenys was here, and not far from her was Mother Lyanna. The child was still coughing as he turned his head to the river. “Are you alright son?” She asked, kneeling next to him, placing a cool hand upon his back, rubbing soothing circles. 

 

Worry and nervousness welled inside him, but his curiosity won out. Ignoring her, he held his hand out on the bank, in the mud. He could feel the ebb and flow of the water as he watched it. He concentrated, wanting to know if the old legends of water magic were true like that ghost said. And to his shock, the water came to his hand and stayed there around his hand. 

 

The two ghosts gasped. “Magic,” Rhaenys whispered loudly, staring at Egg in wonder. “Water magic.” 

 

Egg turned and saw the child looking at him with a weary expression. He noticed that the child was a boy, and that he had a long face and gray eyes. 

 

Blinking in shock, he flashed a quick glance at Mother Lyanna before turning back to the boy. “Are you alright?” Egg asked gently, slowly kneeling next to the boy, letting the water around his hand go.

 

The boy nodded. “Thank you,” he croaked at Egg, each word separated by deep breaths of air.

 

Egg smiled and stood, holding a hand out to the boy. The boy took the hand with a wide smile. “Thank you mister,” the boy repeated as he wiped wet dark hair from his face. 

 

“He looks like Ben,” Mother Lyanna whispered, staring at the boy in shock. Rhaenys grabbed her hand and looked between her and the boy. “He looks like he could be from Winterfell,” his sister remarked. 

 

“I’m just glad I could help,” Egg said with a shake of his head.  “May I ask how you got in the river?” 

 

The boy blushed and looked down at his feet. “I was playing on a branch that went over the water,” he sheepishly said. 

 

“Let me guess,” Egg tacked on. “Slip. Splash. Lots of water. Me?” Egg assumed by the boy’s blush that he got the nail right on the head with his guess.

 

“The current was stronger than it looked,” the boy mumbled. 

 

Egg casted an eye to the Rhoyne. The water was near glassy, but he could feel the current. It ran deep, and strong beneath the surface. 

 

“You need to take him to his parents Egg,” Mother Lyanna said. “They must be worried about him.”

 

“Are your parents nearby?” he asked, nodding at her words. 

 

The boy went wide eyed, and looked back towards where the town is. “Let’s get you back before you manage to fall down a well,” Egg said, giving the boy a quirk of a smile. 

 

The boy groaned, but led Egg back with him into the town. Egg felt the pull of the river as he walked. He still felt the river move in the back of his mind, could still taste the water on the edge of his tongue.  _ Water magic...wonder what Jae will have to say about that… _

 

Egg made sure to give a wide berth to where he thought the Red Priestess would be.They were  passing through the streets of the market section, and Egg spotted the Tyroshi who sold him the dye. He groaned.  _ A month’s worth of dye being washed out to sea. I’ll have to get some more on my way back... _ He felt his side and bit back a curse, not feeling his coin purse.  _ Must have lost it in the river… _ he grumbled to himself. 

 

The bustling was a faint buzz and the smells a faint whiff as the boy neared him to a dock far from where the Shy Maid was at. Egg felt his breakfast churn in his belly for some reason, as the four walked towards the dock, leaving behind a puddling trail and preceded by the wet squeak of their boots on the old wood.  

 

His nervousness swamped his thoughts, not noticing that he’d been mindlessly walking until he hit his elbow against the side of a house. He hissed and clenched the aching joint with his hand. He looked around and when he looked up he felt his insides grow cold.  

 

Standing there in front of him was the Red Priestess next to a roaring fire. She looked at him with her intense yellow eyes and smiled like a hungry cat. She sashayed over towards him, the acrid smell of burning wafting off her. Egg pulled the boy behind his back, keeping his eyes on the approaching woman. 

 

“I saw you in the flames,” she purred as she neared him. Egg took a step back, the strong smell of burning assaulting his nose worse than a whore’s perfume. “The Lord of Light has great plans for you,” she said, her words cloying as she peered at him. 

 

“You must let him guide you to your greatness,” she reached a hand out to rest on his chest, and the touch almost burned. She held his gaze, pinning him with her eyes. “I see in your eyes that you are lost, but the Lord of Light will guide you, if you accept him into your heart.” He smells wood burn from her fire, felt the boy trembling behind him at her words. She moved closer, pressing her breasts up against Egg. “Burn away all other gods and let the Lord of Light shine your glory,” she said in his ear, running a hand slowly down his chest. 

 

He felt his stomach drop. He thinks of the Heart tree he sees in his dreams. He thinks of the fire that doesn’t burn him and the ghosts he sees. He thinks of the recent call to the river and the water magic he just did.  _ The Old Gods... The Valyrian Pantheon... The Mother Rhoyne...  _

 

He shoves her away from him with his free hand. She staggers back, looking at him with wide eyes. His chest is heaving and he balls his hands into fists, knuckles going white. He heard the fire crackle and rage behind him.  “My Gods have not abandoned me, priestess,” he hissed like a serpent. “And I will not abandon them today nor any other day.” 

He stalked off, moving the boy so that he was shielded from the Priestess’s view. Egg’s pace was quick as he let the boy lead him away towards the salty air of the sea. 

 

The first thing Egg saw was a massive ship that bore no colors. The next were the multiple ships of the same make. As he neared he saw men. Men with brown, sea weathered skin and dark hair stood on guard, spears in hand. One was a man near five and thirty years, the other at most a score older than that. They went rigid at the sight of Egg and the boy. 

 

“Wally!” the younger guard barked. “Where have you been!? And who is this!?” he asked, angry, shaking a finger at Egg. Egg paled, not at the man, but at his words. He spoke the Old Tongue.  _ They have to be First Men, but that’s not possible, they’re supposed to be in Tyrosh. _

 

Mother Lyanna held one hand, and Rhaenys grabbed the other. “You’ll be fine Egg,” she assured him, giving him a toothy smile. She turned to Rhaenys. “Can you go find Arthur and Grandmother Rhaella, daughter?” she asked. “I’m sure they’ll want to hear about what happened.” 

 

“Okay, Mama Lya!” Rhaenys said with a wide grin, kissing her cheek and Egg’s before vanishing. Mother Lyanna visibly relaxed a little. 

 

“I didn’t want her around in case this got ugly,” she told Egg. “But just in case it does, I’m here with you son.”  Her words and her determination made him feel warm inside, and drew an eased smile from him briefly. 

 

_ “He saved my life!” _ the boy, Wally, snapped back in the Old Tongue.  _ “He came with me to make sure I got back safe!”  _

 

_ “Saved your life!?” _ a third voice bellowed from the ship. Needless to say that shut the guard up. 

 

The deep voice belonged to a man perhaps a few years older than the younger guard. His skin was brown and weathered from life at sea, long face covered in a thick beard. His hair was long and brown with a few streaks of grey he saw from the knot he kept it in, and his eyes while hard were the same sword steel gray color as the boy’s. 

 

_ “Father!” _ Wally called out in surprise.  _ “Captain!” _ shouted the guards. 

 

Egg was wondering if this was a curse or a blessing. Mother Lyanna squeezed his hand comfortingly. 

 

_ “How pray tell did he save your life?” _ the Captain asked his son as he descended to the dock. 

 

_ “He pulled me out of the river when I was about to drown,” _ the boy explained, hunching his shoulders, and looking down in guilt. 

 

_ “I see,” _ the Captain said in a tone that made Egg sympathize Wally.  _ “And you’re telling me that your cousin just let you throw yourself in the water?”  _

 

_ “No,” _ the boy admitted, lowering his gaze again. “ _ I ran off without him.” _

 

The Captain and knelt before his son, placing a hand on the boy’s wet shoulder.  _ “I asked your cousin to watch you because I want you to be safe. You never know when trouble can arise in Essos and your mother and I want you to be safe.”  _

 

_ “Yes, Father,” _ the boy said guiltily. 

 

The Captain fixed his son with a stare, before leaning in and whispering with the boy. The boy whispered back, making his father nod. The Captain rose to his feet before turning to the younger guard.  _ “Rod, go take him to his mother,” _ he ordered. The guard nodded and ushered the boy away with a brief  _ “Yes, Captain.”  _

 

The Captain turned to Egg and gave him a smile. “I’m sorry for that,” he apologized kindly in the Common Tongue with the traces of an accent. “But as a father, my children are my main priority.” The captain extended a hand to Egg. “I am Captain Dorrhen Snow of the Company of the Roses,” the Captain introduced.  Egg nodded dumbly, feeling his stomach twist into a knot as he shook the offered hand. “The boy you saved was my youngest, Walton.” 

 

_ I can’t use Young Griff or Jon will find me out and complicate everything.  _ “I am…” Egg stumbled. “I am Ionos, Captain Snow,” he greeted. “Ionos Sonaro.”  _ Jae will laugh at me for this... _

 

“Thank you, Ionos Sonaro,” he said, his gravelly voice and eyes earnest. “Please allow me to repay your actions with some food and wine while your clothes dry off.” 

 

“I wouldn’t wish to impose, Captain,” Egg remarked, feeling his guts swirl about like a maelstrom. Mother Lyanna stood next to him, her own long face grim and determined. 

 

“Bah!” the captain snorted, clapping Egg on the shoulder and encouraging him to follow him up the gangplank. “You won’t be. When my wife finds out that you saved our fool of a boy, she’ll demand to thank you herself.” 

 

“Northern hospitality,” Mother Lyanna remarked at Egg’s nervousness. “If he offers you salt and bread, eat it Egg. Hospitality and guest rights are things First Men hold dear and wouldn’t dream of breaking.” 

 

“If you insist,” he returned, following Captain Snow up onto his ship on shaking legs.  _  Jae, this is not what I agreed to… _

 

Captain Snow led him to what looked to be personal quarters. The captain knocked on a door with his knuckles before opening it. Egg’s guess was right. There was a bed nailed down to the floorboards and a heavy trunk at the foot of it that Captain Snow was rummaging through. 

 

“May not fit you like a glove, Sonaro,” the Captain remarked as he tossed Egg a tunic, “but it’s dry and should keep you for now.” He handed Egg a pair of brown trousers. “Leave your wet clothes on the floor, one of the servants will take it up to dry,” he said as he went out the door and closed it. 

 

“I’ll wait out here,” Mother Lyanna said. “You get into those dry clothes before you catch cold Egg.” She remarked in a worried tone before she dissipated. 

 

Egg sighed and began taking his wet sash and tunic off, letting them fall to the floorboards with a wet splat. His boots were tricky but he got them off, turning each over to let the river drip out of them onto the wet pile. 

 

He had just taken off his wet trousers off when Arthur Dayne decided to appear shouting “Your Grace!” 

 

Egg, as naked as the day he was born, gave a startled cry and fell on his ass. He clutched his heart and moved to cover his groin with his legs and hands. 

 

A knock from the door gave his heart another fright. “You okay Sonaro?” Captain Snow asked. 

 

Egg shot Arthur a glare before turning to the closed door. “Yes,” he replied. “Slipped on a puddle.” 

 

The Captain laughed at that. Egg, red faced hurriedly put his borrowed clothes on.  _ I’m fine Ser Arthur, _ he mouthed to the ghost knight. 

 

Arthur nodded, but was still looking serious. “Hightower found the sword, Your Grace,” he informed him. “I’m assuming by your asking of it, you plan on taking Blackfyre with you when you go to Prince Jaehaerys.” 

 

Egg nodded.  _ Tell me after _ , he mouthed. 

 

“Sonaro?” Captain Snow asked again. 

 

Egg steeled his nerves, and barefoot, opened the door. He gave the captain a brief smile.  “Thank you for your generosity, Captain,” he politely said. Egg noticed he was holding a bowl in his hands. Bread and salt. 

 

Arthur was glaring at the captain something fierce. “Ned Stark,” the ghost bit out through clenched teeth.  _  Gods and Goddesses, Old and New, why? _ He mentally bemoaned. 

 

The captain held the bowl out. “This is a tradition to mark guest rights, Sonaro. You-” But before the Captain of the Company of the Rose could explain, Egg dipped a chunk of bread in the salt and popped it into his mouth. 

 

“You’re a gracious host, Captain Snow,” Egg praised after he swallowed the bread and salt. Captain Snow looked at him in surprise, before giving him a smile. 

 

“And you’re looking to be an intriguing guest Sonaro,” the older man returned.

 

Arthur, while still looking angry, didn’t look like he wanted to punch the captain. Mother Lyanna came back then. She looked pleasantly surprised at Arthur. “Hello my friend,” she greeted with a wide smile. 

 

“Princess, erm- Lyanna,” the knight spluttered, giving a brief bow. 

 

“You needn’t worry about harm befalling Egg if he took the bread and salt. You know the importance of guest rights, being of the First Men yourself, Arthur. And will you stop with all the titles, we’re friends are we not?” 

 

“I -yes, Prin- Lyanna,” he muttered. Mother Lyanna smiled and gave the knight a hug, like she always does when Arthur does manage to get over himself. The knight returned it, and Egg saw that he was actually smiling. 

 

“Come with me, there should be some food and wine in my solar,” the Captain remarked as he led Egg down the galley of the ship. They came to a door made of white wood, which Captain Snow opened. 

 

It was a typical solar with chairs, a desk and shelves, this one decorated with simple, sturdy looking furniture. The captain held the door open for him. Egg entered and found himself wondering what Winterfell’s solar looks like. Mother Lyanna took to moving about looking at everything, while Ser Arthur walked next to her, peering over everything with a cautious eye. 

 

The door closed loudly, making Egg turn to look back. His heart stuttered. On the door facing them was a crying face of red upon the white wood. It was the face of a Heart tree. 

 

Mother Lyanna gasped at the sight. She immediately went over to the door, her gray eyes wide as she stared transfixed on the face. She placed a hand on the wood and Egg saw her lips move in a silent prayer. 

 

The captain paid the door no mind and moved to the desk. “Ah, the good lads came out for me,” he remarked after taking a gentle sniff of the wine in the pitcher. “Good stuff this,” he said pouring three cups of wine.  _ Who else is coming? _

 

“Thank you again for saving my son,” Captain Snow said as he held out a glass to Egg. “I can’t thank you enough for what you did for Wally.” 

 

“I did what was right,” Egg bashfully replied, taking the offered wine. “But may I ask you a question, Captain Snow?” 

 

“Of course,” was his reply, sipping the wine. 

 

“I heard that your Company was elsewhere,” Egg began, not drinking his wine. “When did you arrive in Volantis?” 

 

“Ah,” Captain Snow said, grimly smiling at Egg over his cup. “We finished our last contract to deal with some Lyseni pirates days ago. We came into port last night.” His voice was bitter at the mention of the pirates, and grim at the rest. 

 

“Are you looking for another contract here in Volantis?” Egg asked, hoping he could get word to Jae before they do. 

 

As the captain opened his mouth to answer,  hasty footsteps were heard and the door opened with a loud bang. A woman was standing in the hall, stalking up to the Captain. 

 

_ “Your son!”   _ She snarled in the Old Tongue, but her eyes while showing concern also held flickers of love.  _ “Falling in the river when we told him to stay close to shore! He’s as thick headed as you!”  _

 

_ “My love, we have company,”  _ the captain chidded, holding the third cup out to her. He turned to Egg. “Sonaro, this is my wife and my first mate, Berena Snow, formerly Ryswell. Love, this is Ionos Sonaro, the lad that pulled Wally out of the Rhoyne.” 

 

Egg stared at Berena. She was dark of hair and eyes, and unlike the women he knows she kept her hair cut to her chin. She was thick in the waist from childbearing, her figure emphasized by the shirt and trousers she wore instead of a dress. She wore two long knives on her belt and a scar on her chin. 

 

She sized him up with a sharp glance, and gave him a softer smile. “Thank you for what you did,” she earnestly said, extending her hand to him. He shook it with a reciprocated smile. “My boy enjoys wandering off when he’s told not to. Off to find trouble like his old man here,” she joked, slapping her husband’s thigh with her free hand. 

 

“Ah, but love,” the Captain interjected, moving to hold her hand, entwining their fingers. “I don’t go looking for trouble, trouble looks for me.” 

 

_ Same for me and Jae,  _ he silently cheered, sipping the wine. The captain was right it, was very good.  Smooth and sweet and of obviously high quality. 

 

Berena snorted, letting go of his hand and sipped her own wine. “Are you calling me trouble, Ren?” she asked, quirking a dark brow at him, putting a finger under his bearded chin. 

 

“I would never,” he laughed, holding a plate of pastries out. “You’re too good to me to be trouble.”  She took one and gave her husband a tender kiss on the corner of his mouth. 

 

Mother Lyanna guffawed. “He looks so much like Ned!” she laughed loudly. “But he talks like Brandon! And to a Ryswell too!” 

 

Arthur Dayne scowled, shooting Mother Lyanna an unamused look. “No offence, Lyanna, but one of the last things I want to think of is your brother’s romantic prowess.” 

 

“Which brother?” she asked with a goading grin. 

 

“All of them,” was his quick answer. She laughed and Egg was happy to see that it made Arthur smile too. 

 

Captain Snow held the plate out to Egg. He took one and when he bit into it he found it was the same pastry he bought earlier. 

 

“Are you from Volantis, Sonaro?” Berena asked him over her cup, after clinking it against her husband’s. 

 

He shook his head. “I spent nearly all my life travelling through the Free Cities,” he said, being very mindful of how he needs to answer. There’s the face of a heart tree looking at him, he knows that you cannot lie before the Old Gods. 

 

“Any time in Westeros?” his host asked, slowly chewing a piece of spiced meat. “You were familiar with the bread and salt, a very old Westerosi tradition.” 

 

“Not really,” he admitted. “I was born in Westeros, but I’ve not been back since I was a baby.” Mother Lyanna placed a comforting hand on his arm, her gaze encouraging and warm. 

 

“Really?” Berena asked, interest sparkling in her eyes. “You were born in Westeros? Have you any family there?” 

 

_ Fuck… _

 

“Few, but yes,” he admitted, feeling the eyes of the Old Gods upon his back. “I have a kinsman at the Wall and a brother at Winterfell.” He bit back his cringing as the words left his lips. “And some kin in the south as well.” 

 

The two shared shocked looks before looking at him strangely. Berena’s eyes lit with thought. “I heard you asking about passage to White Harbor this morning at the docks,” she stated. “Are you trying to get home to your brother?” 

 

“Yes,” Egg whole heartedly answered. To his dismay he blushed at the admission. “I’ve been wanting to now for years, but I’ve finally convinced myself to go. I just hope I get to him before it’s too late.”

 

“You will, Egg,” Mother Lyanna encouraged, kissing his cheek. “We’ll help you get to Jae.” 

 

“How did you wind up in Essos if your brother is at Winterfell?” Captain Snow asked, lowering his cup to the table. His gaze was clear and keen as he looked Egg in the eye. “Seems odd that you two would be seperated, being brothers and all.” 

 

Egg held his cup in his hands and looked down into the wine.  _ What to say...what to say… _ The red, bleeding eyes gazed upon him still. He sighed and began to move his finger around the rim of his cup in thought. 

 

“We were orphaned as babes,” Egg said, keeping his eyes down, not daring to look at his Northern mother. “One uncle took my brother with him to Winterfell, while I along with another uncle and aunt went to Essos instead.”  _ Be vague, be vague,  _ he silently reminded himself. 

 

Arthur went a bit stiff at the allusion to Jae, his lilac eyes looked away from him and Mother Lyanna, distant in memory. 

 

“Surely your families would have reunited you two?” Captain Snow asked in shock. 

 

“There was a feud between different sides of our family. In addition to that, my uncle never took guardianship of me since arriving in Essos, instead he focused solely on my aunt, who I heard he recently married off,”  _ Not that they knew I lived,  _ he silently added. “I was raised by a friend of my father’s and he isn’t keen on seeing... the uncle in Winterfell because of the feud.” 

 

“Understatement,” Arthur snorted, before shooting an apologetic glance at Mother Lyanna. 

 

“Connington’s an ass,” she said with a frown. “Don’t apologize for that Arthur.” 

 

“So you’ve not been back to Westeros since? Do you at least keep contact with this brother of yours, Sonaro?” Berena asked, sympathy shining in her eyes. 

 

“Aye,” he confirmed, smiling warmly at being able to mention Jae, however vaguely. “He and I communicate with each other as often as possible. We… exchange words on many things. Family, boyhood dreams, swords, stories, pretty much everything brothers would speak of.” His smile turned bitter and he took a long sip from his cup. “He mentioned needing help in Winterfell, so I’m trying to find a way to the North as fast as possible.” 

 

It was silent, the ghosts and Egg tense in the solar with the weirwood door bearing down on them. Egg silently sipped his wine, feeling all his worry and anxiety bearing back down on him.  _ Jae looked so tired, and he begged me to help. I need to get to Winterfell. I should have gone to him before all this came about. He’s my little brother, my only brother, and it takes the Long Night for me to go to him.  _

 

“Have you had any luck on finding safe passage North?” Captain Snow asked, topping Egg’s cup with more wine. “Anyone from this morning making plans to go?”

 

Egg shook his head, and scowled down at his reflection. “I should have gone to Jae years ago,” he murmured to himself, pressing his knuckles to his forehead.  _ I have to go to him as soon as possible, dragon eggs be damned, my brother needs me!  _ He looked up and saw the two exchanging words and whispers. He downed the wine, placing the cup on the table. 

 

“You seem like a strong lad,” Captain Snow noted, his eyes roaming Egg from head to toe. “And I owe you a debt for saving Walton.” The captain stroked his beard before giving Egg a wolfish grin. “What do you say on travelling with us to the North?” 

 

Egg blinked, his mouth opening and closing like a stupid fish. Even Arthur Dayne  and Mother Lyanna looked shocked at the words. “What?” the three chorused. 

 

“We’re going to be heading to White Harbor,” Captain Snow explained, his voice heavy and his gaze serious. “You’re right in that Winterfell needs help. We, the Company of the Rose are going back home to give aid to our kin,” he declared. Berena’s gaze was warm, but also worried as she stood next to her husband. 

 

_ Why would they go? I haven’t told Jae where they are, and if they got here last night there’s no way they could have gotten a raven or a messenger from Lord Stark by now.  _

 

“We leave in three days, when the moon is at its highest point in the sky,” Captain Snow said. “We have room for an extra hand on deck if you decide to come with us.” He shot Egg a small smile. 

 

Egg felt flabbergasted. He looked at the Captain and Berena in shock. “I- I” he stumbled over his words, his cheeks flushing. 

 

Berena held up her hand, stalling his words. “You don’t have to decide now,” she soothingly said. “You have three days to make up your mind, Sonaro.”

 

“Thank you,” he said, giving the two an earnest smile. “Thank you, Captain Snow, and First Mate Snow.” 

 

The three gave way to some light conversation after that, Egg spending the time to mostly listen, not wholly trusting himself to not give anything away. Mother Lyanna and Arthur were conversing with each other on this chance for Egg to go North. 

 

A servant later came in carrying a large tray of food. Egg had lunch with the Captain and his wife. Talking about Essos over stewed lamb, vague descriptions and stories about Jae over spiced fish, and laughing over Wally’s prior escapades over fresh bread. 

 

They were interrupted by a servant knocking on the door, saying that Egg’s clothes were dry. Egg was surprised at how reluctant he was to leave.  “I best be going then,” Egg said, taking the clothes from the servant, feeling his old tension coil in him again. 

 

“Of course,” the Captain replied. “Ed, take him to a spare room to get changed.” 

 

“Thank you again,” he said to his hosts. “And please tell your son that I wish him well.” 

 

Egg followed the servant out and was led back to a small room with a small cot. “I’m afraid your boots are still a bit wet,” the servant said. 

 

“No matter,” Egg replied with a shrug, taking the borrowed shirt off to put his own tunic back on. “I’ll carry them with me.” The servant nodded and closed the door, leaving Egg to finish changing back into his old clothes. He exited the room and took the damp leather boots in his hands. 

 

“Please tell the Captain and his First Mate that I truly enjoyed their hospitality and generosity,” he asked the servant before making his way up the deck. When he was on deck he found that the sun hung low in the sky. 

 

“Better than you expected it to go?” Mother Lyanna asked as he went down the gangplank. 

 

“Yes,” he whispered. “They were very kind.” His thoughts and smile turned bitter. “I doubt they’d be so kind if they knew who I really am, though.” 

 

“Hopefully they won’t find out until after you reunite with Prince Jaehaerys, Your Grace,” Arthur remarked. 

 

Egg sighed, and casted his eyes to the late day sky. He allowed himself a small smile.   _ I’m coming Jae... _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again for the long wait. Please let me know what you think of this chapter. In all honesty, I was rather iffy on posting it, and would like to hear your thoughts on it.


	17. Ned V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned makes a new friend and meets more ghosts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the late update! I wound up getting sick and had major writer's block. Anyway, here's the newest chapter and I hope guys all like it. Feel free to leave your honest opinion in the comments.

After sending Robb and Jon to bed, Ned groaned and resigned himself to an even more trying day without any sleep, again.

 

When King-Lord Torrhen left the first thing Ned did was write a message to Benjen to bring himself to Winterfell as soon as possible. He sealed the message with gray wax and--

 

“Hello there, Eddard,” a husky voice greeted frankly. Ned flinched and looked up to the source of the voice. This ghost didn’t look anything like a Targaryen or look much like a Stark. His handsome face wasn’t long and his hair was near blonde, but when Ned got a good look at his smiling face, his sharp eyes were the same blue-gray as Brandon and Benjen’s.

 

“Hello,” Ned greeted, hesitant and unfamiliar with whoever this was.

 

“I’m Syggerik of Skagos,” the ghost introduced, his head high and his posture relaxed. “I’m one of your ancestors.”  He walked about the solar a few paces, and his nose wrinkled at the sight of all the paper, scrolls and books that have taken the desk under siege.

 

“Pleased to meet you,” Ned awkwardly said as Syggerik went to stare out the window.

 

“You need to go to the Wolfswood,” Syggerik said curtly. He pointed out with his finger. “Head Northeast and-”

 

“Why do I need to go to the Wolfswood?” Ned barked sharply. His nerves were all frayed, having too many shocks in a single night.

 

Syggerik slowly moved his eyes to look at Ned from his spot by the window. The look he gave was cold, piercing.

 

“Starks of old were the stuff of legends,” Syggerik praised as he looked back out the window. “From the Neck to Hardhome, tales were spoken of them. I remember growing up with tales of your other ancestors. The Builder who divided the First Men by halving the True North. Wargs who were bonded to one of the most ferocious beasts to ever walk these lands,” He gave Ned a side eye. “The only ones who could, so I was told.”

 

“What does that have to do with me going to the Wolfswood?” Ned asked, still cross.

 

“Seems this is the time when legends return,” Syggerik answered smoothly. He turned to look at Ned. His gaze was as earnest as his smile. “And I want to see if the direwolf in the Wolfswood will be a part of these returning legends.”

 

Ned swayed a bit on his feet. Syggerik, quickly shot his hands out and steadied him by grabbing his shoulders. Concern spread over the ghost’s face.

 

“There are no direwolves south of The Wall,” Ned rasped.

 

“Aye,” Syggerik said giving him a nod as he still kept his hands on Ned. “And now there is one. With more soon to come.”

 

“What do you mean?” Ned asked, smacking his cold hands off of his shoulders. He could feel his hairs turning gray atop his head.

 

“The direwolf is female,” Syggerik answered calmly, not taking his eyes off of Ned. “And she is carrying a litter in her belly.”

 

Ned rubbed his temple and sighed. _I’ll not be catching up on sleep anytime soon._ “And why, Syggerik, should I avoid common sense and approach a pregnant direwolf?” Ned groaned out.

 

“Normally I’d tell you to avoid the bitch unless you wanted to meet a very painful death,” Syggerik said frankly. “But the timing of her arrival struck me.”

 

“The timing?” Ned asked, confused.

 

“Why now?” the ghost clarified. “Direwolves exist still, like you said, Beyond the Wall. But they’ve never come down until now. Now, when the Long Night comes again and the Ghosts of Winterfell have woken from their rest.”

 

Syggerik looked out the window again. His gaze was weary and his smile was bittersweet.

 

Ned followed his gaze. From their spot, all he could see were the old trees that made up the Wolfswood. Ned closed his eyes and breathed deep. He slowed his thoughts and made himself think, think, think. _He has a point. If she’s truly there then she came to the Wolfswood for a reason. Gods only know why, but this has to be their doing._

 

“How will I find her?” Ned asked.

 

Syggerik gave him a bold smile. “Follow me. I found her before and when we get near where I last saw her we follow her tracks.” He gave Ned a rough slap on the arm and vanished like a puff of smoke.

 

Ned let the realization of the situation sink in. “Gods what have I gotten myself into,” he asked himself.

 

He quickly exited his solar and sought out Maester Luwin. He found the old man in the ravenry, feeding the birds chunks of entrails from the butcher’s scraps. “My lord,” he greeted with a bow of his head before offering more bloody meet to a squawking raven.

 

“I need you to send this to Castle Black,” he told the Maester, holding the sealed message out to him. “As soon as you can,” Ned stressed.

 

“Is everything alright Lord Stark?” The Maester asked, his wrinkled brow furrowing at Ned’s expression.

 

“I need to see my brother as soon as possible,” was all the answer Ned gave. The Maester said something and took the message with his clean hand, but Ned didn’t hear or see him.

 

In his mind he saw the Other butcher Ser Waymer and raise him as a wight with only a wave of his blue hand. He knows that as First Ranger, Benjen is most likely to come across the Others sooner rather than later. _I’ve lost Mother and Father. I’ve lost Brandon and Lyanna. They’ll have to kill me before I lose Benjen too._

 

He nodded, and stalked off with his dread.

 

He made his way to the stables and had a stable boy ready his horse. The lad was confused, but did as he was told. And against his better judgement, Ned rode out and made for the Wolfswood.

 

Syggerik made himself known again when Ned crossed the treeline. “Ah,” the ghost sighed, relief painting his face. “This is much better,” he said aloud stretching his arms out as he walked on the ground next to Ned’s horse.

 

“You prefer the Wolfswood?” Ned found himself asking his ancestor.

 

“I ain’t a fan of walls,” Syggerik answered in his husky voice. “Open skies, open forests. That’s where I belong. I never understood how my son or his mother never felt trapped, spending so much time in such a small place.”

 

“Small?” Ned asked, incredulous. “Winterfell isn’t small.”

 

“It is compared to the openness of the lands further North,” Syggerik countered with a snort. “If it weren’t for my Dara, or our son, I’d have gone crazy after a year.”

“Dara?” Ned asked. “Was that your wife’s name?”

 

“I called her Dara,” Syggerik countered. Then he looked up at Ned. “You may be named for her and our son,” Syggerik said with a melancholic smile.

 

Ned’s mind stuttered. “Huh?” was all he could voice.

 

“Lady Eddara Stark,” Syggerik said in his husky voice, his eyes soft with memory. “She was a good woman. She was good to me, and I still to this day can’t tell you what I did to earn any shred of that goodness.” Ned saw Syggerik’s eyes glisten as he recollected with a thick voice. “She wanted to name our boy after dead men from your House, and I told her the only Stark he’ll be named for is her. We called our boy Eddard, and he became Lord of Winterfell after her father died.”

 

Ned stared at the ghost, and felt his throat bob. “What were they like?” he found himself asking.

 

Syggerik looked up at him in surprise and forgot to keep pace as he stalled his step. It was tense for a moment as the ghost silently led Ned through the woods. “You have her eyes,” he heard the ghost say before falling silent as he carried on to find the direwolf.

 

They spent perhaps an hour or two in the woods, seeking out the direwolf. Syggerik was tracking with an expert eye when suddenly he went still. Ned’s horse began to whine and he petted her large neck with his hand.

 

“Eddard, get off your horse,” the ghost hissed. “The direwolf’s close, and unless you want a broken neck, you’ll get on your own two feet.”

 

Ned gave Syggerik a scathing look but heeded his words. He strode forwards and stood next to Syggerik. The ghost was pointing at the earth beneath their feet. There were wolf tracks. Massive wolf tracks.

 

He felt himself pale. _What did I just get myself into?_

 

Then his horse screamed. The mare bucked and whined shrilly before running back the way they came. As the horse ran something large and gray leaped out and trailed after her with a deep snarl.

 

Ned shouted and ran after the two animals. He ran, not nearly close to catching up. He shouted again, hoping his horse could outrun the beast. He had lost sight of the two, but he followed the sound of his spooked horse and her hooves.

 

When he reached his limit, he rested his back against an old, gnarled tree. Sweat ran down him in buckets, and his legs burned. His throat was hot and dry as he panted.

 

Ned looked up from his boots to snarl at his ancestor when he found a pair of eyes staring at him. Large, amber brown eyes were staring at Ned. They came forward and Ned saw the direwolf emerge from the trees and bushes she had hidden behind.

 

She was beautiful and massive. She was at least the size of a pony. She had thick, dark gray fur with a round, white underbelly. _Her litter,_ Ned noted. She came closer to him, slowly, carefully, cautiously taking short steps. Ned didn’t move, he barely breathed.

 

_If I weren’t tired and hurting, I’d have thought this was some fever dream._

 

Her muzzle came close and she sniffed. She blinked at him and he blinked back at her.

 

Ned slowly rose and took a single step towards her. He cautiously raised his arm, exposing his palm to the she-wolf. She sniffed his palm, her hot breath coating Ned’s palm. She licked his palm with a large swipe of her pink tongue.

 

Ned couldn’t help himself. He smiled. She gave a content sigh. “Hello,” he softly greeted.

 

Ned rose and stretched, grumbling about getting old. He turned and say Syggerik standing off to the side, speechless and bug eyed.

 

He heard a horn blow in the distance. _Shit._

 

“They’re coming to look for you,” Syggerik deduced.

 

“We’d best get back to WInterfell then,” Ned said, and began to stalk off back towards the castle. “And I’m going to sleep for the next day,” he declared.

 

As Ned walked there was a heavy thumping and a heavy pant that followed him. He stopped and turned to see the she-wolf was walking alongside him. He kept his gaze on her and walked again and she walked with him.

 

He walked again and again she followed. With a resigned sigh, knowing that this has become more of a boyhood dream than his own life, he walked with a direwolf on one side and a ghost on his other.

 

Syggerik kept casting uneasy glances to the she-wolf.

 

“If she wanted to eat me, she’d have done so already,” Ned reasoned with the ghost.

 

“Aye,” Syggerik uneasily agreed. “The ones Beyond the Wall ain’t afraid to make a meal of a man. I figured there was something special about the Starks of Old to make companions of them.”

 

“And you figured I’d be the same?” Ned asked gruffly. “And how do you know what direwolves are like Beyond the Wall? Were you in the Night’s Watch?”

 

His eyes turned cold and a slow, sharp smile grew on his lips. “Believed more than figured,” Syggerik answered. “Jae’s got more magic than blood in his veins and I’m hoping for all your sakes, he and Egg aren’t the only ones touched by the Old Gods.”

 

“Touched by the Old Gods?” Ned asked as he stepped over a tree root. “You think that’s why they’ve got magic?”

 

“Aye some of the magic, him and his brother have,” Syggerik says. “Why else would he and his brother meet in dreams where a Heart tree is always watching.”

 

“And that makes you think Jon’s been touched by the Old Gods?” Ned asked, but he also believed the Old Gods had something to do with that as well. “That he has… magic dreams.”

 

“That and the fact he was conceived on the Isle of Faces,” Syggerik responded as simply as if he was talking about the weather.

 

His words made Ned trip and stumble. “What?”

 

“You’re sister was married on the Isle of Faces to the Silver Prince, I’m told you know that,” Syggerik said. Ned nodded silently as he stopped to stare at the ghost. The she-wolf stopped and waited near Ned’s feet. It was something he’d found out from a servant girl in the Tower of Joy after he found Lyanna and Jon.

 

“Well, quite a few ghosts did some figuring and it turns out your nephew had to have been conceived on the Isle of Faces on their wedding night.”

 

Ned grimaced. He loves his nephew, but the last thing he wanted to think about was his little sister… He shuddered. _I am going straight to my bed,_ he promised himself, _and I am going to sleep until tomorrow._

 

“Sweet lad Jae,” Syggerik mused aloud, his eyes soft and fond, as he continued his walk. “Fast learner too.”

 

“What did you teach him?” Ned found himself asking as he too moved. The she-wolf followed him still.  

 

“I helped him and his brother learn the Old Tongue,” Syggerik said. “I’m not their only teacher who taught them the Old Tongue, but I was their first.”

 

Syggerik looked at Ned for a good few steps. “I’m willing to teach you and your boy if you like. The ghosts of Men who lived during the Long Night can’t speak anything else, and it’d be best if you can speak as much as possible to them.”

 

Ned blinked at his ancestor. “Thank you,” he said. “That’s very kind of you.”

 

“Don’t thank me yet Eddard,” Syggerik snorted. “It ain’t going to be easy.”

 

Despite being tired down to his very bones and feeling a ravenous hunger, the walk back was actually pleasant. It was peaceful, and he felt the warmth of the sun that filtered through the leaves overhead.

 

And that peace was shattered as he entered the gates with the she-wolf matching his pace. Syggerik left, no doubt to spread word of this with the other ghosts. Many people around Winterfell stopped and some ran off.  

 

“Lord Stark!” Many servants and guards shouted. “What in gods name is that!?” “That beast is huge!” He saw spears being raised and bows drawn. The she-wolf snarled, hunching defensively as a deep growl racked her large frame.

 

“Enough!” He bellowed, silencing their shouts. “Anyone who harms her will answer to me!” he decreed as he gestured to the she-wolf.

 

“Ned!” Cat called out, rushing to meet him, “Ned I was so worried!” The she-wolf swiveled her head and growled at Cat. His wife stopped and stared at the she-wolf in undisguised fear, her face wan.

 

“Father!” Robb shouted, being tailed by Jon. Robb looked tired, and Ned wonders if he managed to get any sleep earlier. Jon looked dead on his feet. He was paler than usual, his eyes barely open and carrying dark rings under them. Jon’s eyes opened wide at the sight of the she-wolf, and Robb looked much the same.

 

“Ned what is that?” Cat asked in a thin voice. The she-wolf growled, and Ned, feeling very tired gave her a pat on the head. She thankfully stopped growling, but she still seemed tense.

 

“She’s a direwolf,” Ned simply answered. “I found her in the Wolfswood.” He gave her a scratch behind a large ear that made her calm. “My horse got spooked by her, so we came back on foot.”

 

“There are no direwolves south of the Wall,” Robb breathed, his face slack with shock.

 

“Aye,” Jon mumbled with a yawn. “Now there is one.”

 

“With more to come,” Ned tacked on. At Robb and Cat’s confused stare, Ned sighed. “She’s pregnant,” he explained. The she-wolf huffed and trotted closer to Robb and Jon.

 

Cat’s breath hitched and to be honest Ned was tense as well. The she-wolf sniffed at Robb and Jon, giving the two of them licks before coming back and nuzzling against Ned’s side. Ned yawned and looked at his family and at a nearby servant.

 

He looked at Cat. He stepped towards her and took one of her hands in both of his. He stroked the back of her soft hand with his thumbs before pressing a kiss to her knuckles.  “I’m sorry for worrying you, Cat,” he earnestly apologised. “And I’m sorry, but I’m exhausted. I’m in dire need of rest and a meal.” He turned to his son and nephew. “Jon, take today to rest. You’ve well earned it.”

 

Jon gave a slow blink and a small smile that made Ned feel guilty.  “Thank you Lord Stark,” he murmured before leaving.

 

Ned turned to Robb. “You should get some rest too Robb,” he told his son.

 

Robb shook his head. “I’m not that tired,” he insisted. “And I’m in no mood to sleep now.” Ned understood.

 

“Have Robb run Winterfell for a day,” Mother suggested. Ned didn’t notice her appearance, and Cat questioned him at his slight jump. Mother stood and looked Robb in the eye.

 

“It’d be best to have him get a taste for what he’ll have  to do,” she explained. “And with the Long Night coming, you may have to leave Winterfell to prepare the North. Robb will need to be able to stand in for you should those times come.”

 

Ned sluggishly mulled over his Mother’s suggestion. _Why not? What’s the harm in that?_ He nodded. “Robb, you’ll be acting in my stead for today,” he said. “Speak with Poole and your mother on what needs to be done.”

 

Robb’s mouth opened and closed. “Of course,” he said. “Thank you,” he said with a nod, but Robb kept his blue eyes trained on his grandmother’s ghost.

 

Mother gave Robb a nod and a twitch of a smile. “Let’s go,” she said, putting a hand on Robb and guiding him into the castle.

 

Ned allowed a small smile. He looked at Cat’s shocked face, and gave her a peck on the lips and whispered kind words before he took his leave. He heard the heavy steps of the she-wolf follow him.

 

He raised his brow at her. She looked at him, opened mouth with her pink tongue poking a bit over her jaw. He sighed and decided he needed sleep to in order to think on what the hell he was going to do with the she-wolf. The she-wolf followed him and servants gawked and backed away as she tailed him through the castle. She bumped her muzzle against his thigh as he went up the stairs to finally get some rest.

 

He made his way up to his bedroom, the one he shares with Cat. He opened the door and found that there was a platter with food on his table. The she-wolf trotted in and went about smelling the room. He closed the door behind him.

 

Ned sighed as she scratched at the fur rug lying on the floor and gave a curious bite to the bedpost. He sat down at the table with a groan and felt his stomach rumble. He tore into a warm piece of brown bread with his hands and dug into the cheese and cold meats on his plate.

 

He heard deep _wuff_ and saw the she-wolf sitting and staring at Ned. Ned looked between her, and the chunk of meat he was going to put in his mouth. He tossed it to her and she quickly ate the meat.

 

_Not how I was expecting my day to go…_

 

He left the remainder of his meat on his plate and set the plate down on the floor. As she went to lick his plate clean, Ned wrangled his boots off and promptly fell onto his bed. He closed his heavy eyelids and let a groan out as he felt himself sink deeper and deeper into sleep.

 

His dreams were plagued with the faces of his loved ones staring back at him with burning blue eyes.

 

At some point he heard his name being called and saw Cat come in. He heard the she-wolf growling, and he felt the growl reverberate through his own chest. “Be nice girl,” he grumbled to the wolf. She was quiet and Ned closed his eyes.

 

He groaned as he compelled himself to wake. He saw Cat, asleep next to him, huddled to his side. Dawn broke, the pale colors warming her pale skin and hair. He smiled, and kissed her auburn hair. He missed her in all the time he spent working with Jon to uncover all the forgotten history he was unwittingly surrounded by. He held her close to him, savoring the feel of her soft body in his thick arms and breathed in the scent of the floral oils she uses.

 

“Good morning Ned!” Brandon bellowed as he suddenly formed at the edge of the bed. He let out an obnoxious laugh at Ned’s upright jolt.

 

Ned leveled his brother an unamused glare. Brandon rolled his eyes at Ned and still smiled. “At least you stayed in your bed this time. I was hoping you’d fall out like you did when we were boys.”

 

Ned couldn’t help but snort at the memories. Brandon was always an early riser, and enjoyed waking him, Lyanna and Benjen up as annoyingly as possible. Jumping on their beds, handfuls of summer snow down their nightclothes, and on one occasion he threw a boot at Ned’s head.

 

“What do you want?” Ned whispered, not wanting to wake Cat.

 

“There’s someone here to talk to you,” Brandon answered, smiling the wide, wild grin he was known for. “They’re waiting for you in your solar.”

 

“Alive or a ghost?” Ned found himself asking.

 

“A ghost,” Brandon said, his smile and eyes dimming sadly. “And I think you should bring your new friend.” He added, cocky grin back as he gestured behind Ned with his chin.

 

Ned turned and saw the she-wolf’s large head propped on top of his matress. She was gazing at Ned with her warm amber eyes half lidded. She gave a high pitched yawn that showed off her large white fangs before closing her mouth, letting the very tip of her tongue peek out.

 

“I still can’t believe that she’s real,” Brandon murmured.

 

“Me too,” Ned mumbled, petting her head with a slow hand. He swung his legs over and found his boots on the floor. He yanked the boots on and rose from his bed with a groan, feeling the ache he got from his walk through the Wolfswood.

 

“You’ve gotten old, little brother,” Brandon mused. Ned turned and looked at Brandon. He had his usual grin on his face, that wide, self-sure grin that Ned knew he could never replicate.

 

“It’s a shame you didn’t,” he whispered to Brandon.

 

Brandon’s smile fell briefly, and his eyes looked wet in the morning light. “Nah,” he retorted with a half-hearted grin, his voice wet. “Being old suits you Ned. I’d have aged like old milk and hated every gray hair I’d have gotten.” Ned gave his brother a tight smile, and felt his eyes sting. “Now, come on, they’re waiting for you,” Brandon teased before fading away.

 

Ned let loose a tight breath. He made his way for the door, stopping to press a kiss to Cat’s cheek. The smile she gave in her sleep made his heart feel lighter.

 

As he took a step out the door, the she-wolf crossed the room in a few strides. He shut the door as quietly as possible and turned to head back to his solar.

 

The she-wolf easily fell into step with him as he walked a leisurely pace through the halls. Every now and then she would look at him when he would look down at her. And well, it made him smile.

 

He saw Brandon again, standing next to the closed door of his solar. He was leaning against the wall and gave him an excited smile. He gave a sweep of his arm, silently saying ‘go on in.’

 

Ned nodded, and opened the door, curious as to which ghost he was going to be seeing now. When the door swung open he was engulfed in a cold hug.

 

“Ned!” a familiar voice called.

 

His breath hitched. He looked down at the ghost hugging him. “Lyanna,” he breathed.

 

It was his little sister looking up at him. His little sister with her wolfish smile, her long dark hair, and her clear gray eyes. She hugged her skinny arms around him again.

 

“Thank you, Ned,” she said. “Thank you for all that you’ve done to keep my son safe.”

 

Ned’s lips quivered as he returned her hug. He lowered his head and felt the tears burn as they left his eyes.  He was heartbroken when he heard of Father and Brother’s deaths at the hands of the Mad King.

 

But Lyanna was _dying_ when he found her. He heard her final words, heard her take her last breath right in front of him. The last time he saw Lyanna, the last time he held her… His last memory of his little sister, his only sister, was of her begging for her son’s life in a room that smelled of blood and roses.

 

He heard the door close shut. He felt another chilled body wrap around him. “All we need is Benjen,” Brandon murmured in Ned’s ear. “Then it really will be like old times.”

 

Ned swallowed back the new wave of tears. The she-wolf whined and nuzzled her head against his side, her warm breath fanning over him.

 

He remained there in the embrace of the ghosts of his siblings for a time. Until they all regained their composure, and a bit longer than that.

 

When the three disentangled, Lyanna looked at Ned and gave him a wolfish smile. “For the Quiet Wolf, you’re looking to have people talk about you with what you’re doing,” she remarked, looking between Ned and the she-wolf. “She’s beautiful,” Lyanna praised.

 

“Aye,” Ned agreed, stroking the Stark gray fur. Staring at her deep warm eyes, and he smiled at the look he found in those eyes staring back at him.

 

“Does she have a name yet?” Lyanna asked giddily, leaning this way and that to inspect the direwolf. “You know if you don’t name her, I will, don’t you Ned.”

 

Brandon snorted. “Lya, it’s Ned’s wolf,” he reminded.

 

“I know,” she sniffed. “But that doesn't mean he’ll choose a good name. I mean he named his son after you,” she told Brandon in a drawl, with a roll of her eyes.

 

“Your son’s name is longer than he is tall,” Brandon retorted.

 

“Winter,” Ned cut in.

 

“Pardon?” Lyanna asked, raising a brow at Ned.

 

Ned looked from the direwolf, to his siblings and back. “Her name,” Ned said slowly, scratching behind a massive ear, “is Winter.”

 

Brandon and Lyanna looked at Ned, the wolf, and then each other. “Suppose you could have come up with worse,” Brandon noted with a snort, but his smile was warm, and Ned knew his real meaning.

 

Instead he didn’t answer him, and chose to pet Winter instead. She gave a small chuff, and licked his face.  

 

Lyanna gave an infectious smile.

 

“So,” Ned said as he moved to sit at the desk. Winter followed and layed down at his side, taking up an entire fur rug for herself. “Tell me what you two have been doing all these years,” Ned asked his siblings.

 

They smiled. “Oh, do we have stories to tell,” Lyanna mischievously said. The two took seats across from Ned. And soon the three were exchanging stories, and it almost felt normal.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again sorry for the late update. I'm going to do my best to post the next chapter on time. Please let me know what you guys think of the chapter, I look forward to reading your comments.


	18. Aegon IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Egg leaves one sell sword company for another, and meets someone unexpected along the way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the late update! I struggled writing this as I struggled with projects for art school and my dogs getting sick. Hope you all like this chapter and please let me know your honest thoughts, they're always appreciated.

He hadn’t gotten much sleep these last few days, the plans he made to leave making his heart pound so loudly his mind wouldn’t quiet down. He spent most of last night just lying in bed, tight with apprehension. 

 

At some point Father had come in, his face twisted with worry as he hovered by Egg’s side. The only sleep Egg managed to get came after his Father ran his cold hands through his long hair and a soft Valyrian song of rivers and swaying reeds filled his ears. 

 

Egg blinked and ran his hands over his face and through his hair. He let out a groan as he became coherent.  _  The Company of the Roses leaves tonight,  _ he reminded himself.  _ I leave tonight…   _

A stone formed in the pit of his stomach as he mentally went over his plan three times in his head as nervousness coiled in his belly. He shook his head and hit himself in the forehead with a fist. _What sort of dragon are you if you’re afraid to leave your damn nest?_ He asked himself.

 

Scowling at being awake, he swung himself upright and off the creaking bed. With a huff he dressed for the day, wearing simple, sturdy clothes and his most worn pair of leather boots- the ones that don’t make any noise on wooden floors _.  _ He stalked over to his trunks and got a thick rucksack out.

 

He felt his stomach awaken, but chose to hold off on breaking his fast.

 

He blinked and saw his sister appear in his room. “Good morning Egg!” she chirped, running over on soundless feet to hug him. She looked up at him with those large, near black eyes that Jae shares and they shone with earnest glee. 

 

Egg smiled. “Morning Rhaenys,” he greeted. He hugged her and put his cheek to her head. 

 

“You’re going to go to Jae tonight, yeah?” she excitedly asked, bouncing on her feet. 

 

“Yes,” he confirmed, smile tugging gently at his lips. “I’m catching a ship to the North,” he whispered airily, still feeling it was all a dream. It made his sister giggle. 

 

“Can you show me more magic?” she asked, eagerly gazing up at him with her big dark eyes. 

 

Egg felt it hard to refuse his older sister’s request. He nodded and she cheered. Egg walked over to the table and looked at the jug of water that lay atop of the smooth wood. He flexed his fingers as he stared at the water. 

Ever since his he felt the call to the Rhoyne, Egg made a little exercise of playing with the jug of water he keeps in his quarters. The Rhoynish ghost hasn’t appeared since they helped Egg save Wally Snow, so Egg has been exploring his water magic out on his own. 

 

He closed his eyes and let loose a slow, deep breath. In the silence of his thoughts he felt a faint tickle in his mind. He blinked his eyes open and stepped closer to the jug. He slowly raised both of his hands and hovered them above the jug. He felt the weight of the water below his hands, could smell how clean it was. It didn’t run as deep as the river, but he could almost feel the shape it took inside the clay jug.

 

Rhaenys perched herself on top of his chair, resting her hands on the table to peer at the jug. 

 

Egg minutely raised his hands and and gingerly pressed them back down. The water gave a tiny rise and fall, the ripple it left behind small and faint. Rhaenys let out a small “Ooh,” at the tiny display of water magic. 

 

Because he felt the need to show something more impressive, Egg raised his hands again, higher this time. He brought them down and the water in the jug nearly rose above the lip of the clay pot. 

 

Again and again he made the water rise, making it climb higher in the air above the jug. Rhaenys gave an excited cheer and clapped her hands. Smug, Egg ended his show by slurping some of the water when it rose again before lowering the rest sink back into the jug. 

 

Feeling awake, and no longer tasting his stale spit, he turned to his trunks. He picked up the rucksack and made himself get to work. 

 

He put a few sets of clothes in the bag, inconspicuous working clothes since he could always buy better stuff when they make port if he needs to. Then he carefully placed in several small coin purses, hiding them between the clothes. 

 

He felt his stomach pang with hunger, but he wasn’t ready to leave his chamber yet. So he just punched his gut and carried on with his packing. 

 

Then came the mementos. He had acquired several items and now gave himself the task of deciding which things he would bring. He sighed, and closed his eyes. He reached into his trunk and began taking things out. 

 

The first thing he grabbed was a seashell. A spirally thing with a pearlescent inside that fit entirely in his olive skinned palm. He found it when he was seven, in Lys when he was strolling with Grandmother Rhaella along the beach. He held it to his ear and closed his eyes, hearing the echo of the sea- the lapping of waves, the crashing of shorebreak, the whistling wind. He opened his eyes and looked at it.  “How often has Jae been to the sea?” he whispered to himself. 

 

“Dunno,” Rhaenys answered, startling him. She craned her head over his shoulder to look at the shell. “Lord Stark usually keeps him at Winterfell. He’s been to White Harbor once or twice but he wasn’t allowed to go along the beach.” 

 

Egg scowled, reined in his temper with a gutteral snarl. Only to be interrupted by the growl of his empty belly. Rhaenys snorted at him. She gave him a smile. “You sound like a dragon,” she remarked. Ignoring his empty belly, he allowed a smile as he packed the shell, carefully wrapping it in one of his tunics. 

 

He found a small book, with an untitled red leather cover. A book of songs and poems that Jon got him on his tenth birthday. The day Jon told Egg the truth about being Rhaegar’s son.  _ “Your father,” Jon had said, choking on his words, turning his gaze away. “Your father loved singing. His voice was the most beautiful of any I’d ever heard.” Egg stared at Jon’s pained profile as he continued to describe Father before looking at Father’s ghost. Father looked unhappy, but there was an understanding glint in his eyes.   _

 

Egg sang a few songs from the book. Jon nearly cried at first, saying that he sounded just like Father. In his opinion, Jae and Rhaenys sound more like Father than him when they sang, but Egg can’t ever say that to Jon could he? But Egg sang all the same, until Jon made it clear what he really thought about House Stark, about Mother Lyanna. He hasn’t sung anything for Jon since. 

 

Egg stared at the book, narrowing his eyes at it.  _ Do I keep it? Should I leave it?  _ He asked himself over and over, debating this and that. Feeling tense, he put it in the rucksack. _ Jae may like to go through it, _ he reasoned.  _ And it’d be nice to hear him sing some of these songs. _

 

The next few mementos were easier to sort. He tossed the unread Seven Pointed Star he was given over his shoulder. Rhaenys caught it before it  could fall to the floor. She set it on his table, and slapped his shoulder. His stomach growled again. He grimaced, but ignored it.  _ I’ll eat when I’m finished packing,  _ he told himself. 

 

He didn’t touch the cyvasse set he got from the leader of the Golden Company as his last names day gift, but he saw Rhaenys slip the two dragon pieces into his bag. 

 

Decided against the satin ribbon the Pentoshi girl he spent the night with slipped into his pocket on his way out. And when Rhaenys asked why he didn’t keep the pretty ribbon, he blushed and said he’d find better ones in White Harbor. His sister thankfully dropped the subject after making Egg promise he’d get  matching pair for Jae and him, wrapping her little pinky around his. 

 

He rummaged around, his fingers mindlessly searching as his thoughts went back to his plan. The pads of his fingers pressed against something smooth and cool. Grabbing it, he saw that it was the glass marble. It was a gift from Septa Lenore, something she got from a Myrish market stall. It was the size of a chestnut, and smooth; made from clear colored glass that swirled the colors of pale pinks, vibrant oranges and deep reds. Mother Elia and Arthur liked it, mentioning that it was the colors of Dorne- rich sunsets and red sands. 

 

He remembers her taking him along to get more hair dye, holding his hand so he wouldn’t get lost. He remembers how he stopped to stare at the collection of colored glass at the market stall. She bought him the marble on their way back, giving it to him with a kind smile, as she curled his fingers around the trinket. She gave him a kiss atop his head before she led him back to the  _ Shy Maid _ . 

 

His heart lurched at the thought of leaving his septa behind. He may not believe in the Seven, but he does love her in the way he imagines you love an aunt. She has always been good and kind to him ever since he was a baby. He carefully wrapped the marble in one of his socks and gingerly laid it into his rucksack. 

 

He quickly sorted his other trinkets, packing a small dagger in his boot and gingerly putting a comb in the rucksack. Pausing, Egg sat back on his heels. He was silently going over his belongings again, seeing if he would need anything for his trip to White Harbor.  _ Shirts. Trousers. Smallclothes. Socks. Coins. Daggers. The shell. The marble. The book. The- _

 

“Your Grace?” Septa Lenore gasped. 

 

Egg whipped around, nearly falling on his ass. His septa was stand in his doorway, her mouth agape as she held his door open, a tray of food in her other hand. 

 

“Shut the door!” he hissed, feeling his guts twist and seize as she stared at him in shock. 

 

She blinked and stepped inside his room, closing the door behind her. “Your Grace, may I ask what you’re doing?” she asked after slowly setting the tray atop his table. Cold meat, cheese and a fruit laden bread stared back at him. 

 

But Egg ignored the gnaw of his belly. He clammed up and stood rigidly. He put his back to her as panic began to curl its cold fingers through his insides. He jerkily began to toss his unpacked belongings into his trunks. Unease washed over him in a deluge. 

 

“I’ll get Ser Arthur,” Rhaenys quickly said before flickering away. 

 

“You’re leaving the Golden Company, Your Grace,” she said, her voice was clear, and told him that she made an observation, not asked a question. 

 

“I have to,” he answered, bunching an old shirt in his hands. He tossed it like a child would a ball, still keeping his back to his septa. 

 

“May I ask why you have to leave?” she asked, her rich voice thick with motherly concern. 

 

Egg bowed his head and still didn’t look at her. He wrung and twisted a bright red tunic between his hands. “I doubt you’d believe me if I told you,” he responded, not entirely sure if he was talking to her or himself. 

 

“I believe a lot of things,” she retorted. 

 

“You’d believe me to be mad,” was his bitter answer, unable to keep the sneer off his face and out of his voice. “My father’s family is known for madness. Delusions are a speciality of ours,” he snarled, tossing the tunic into his trunk.

 

“But not your mother’s. And certainly not in you,” was her definitive verdict. 

 

Egg went still. He turned to face his septa and he narrowed his eyes at her. “How would you know anything about my mother’s family?” he hissed. From the corner of his eye his saw the ghost of Arthur Dayne come forth, looking pale and frantic. 

 

At the question his septa raised her head and met his gaze. There wasn’t a waver or flicker of fear in her eyes or face. “I knew your mother and your uncles since we were children,” she answered. “I served your mother at the Red Keep, for several years.” Her gaze was stubborn, and the lilac of her eyes was very familiar. 

 

He frowned and thought about her words. He briefly glanced at Ser Arthur when it all finally fell into place. When he puzzled together pieces of facts he remembered a name. “Dayne,” he whispered.  _ She has Arthur’s eyes…   _ “You’re Ashara Dayne.” 

 

She flinched at the name. “Perhaps once I was,” she tersely responded. 

 

Egg’s mind swam at the admission. “How did-” He ran a hand through the more prominent silver roots of his hair. “Why didn’t - I-” he ground out. “No one told me!” 

 

“I have never told anyone here that,” she explained, her voice low. “Connington only ever saw me in passing, not having the patience to deal with the Princess’s circle at court,” she remarked with a snort.

 

He rubbed his temples and growled.  _ Why didn’t Mother Elia or Arthur say anything? They’d recognize you in a heartbeat.  _ Then he thought back to the day he went out and found the Company of the Rose, and remembered Ser Arthur’s sad glances to Egg  _ and _ his septa. He thought back farther and farther and found the same sad look Ser Arthur always,  _ always _ gave Septa Lenore. 

 

“Why?” he asked, looking his septa in the eye. “Why did you fake your death?”  _  Everyone from Westeros knows the tragedy of Ashara Dayne. The most beautiful girl of her generation who fell from the tower of Starfall into the sea, leaving behind only stories and her white dress.  _

 

She gave a forlorn sigh, but made no move to sit down on his chair or bed. “It’s a long story Your Grace.” 

 

“I leave at night. I think I have some time to spare,” he countered, crossing his arms over his growling stomach. He scowled and punched his guts to quiet them. 

 

She looked back stubbornly at him. “May I ask, Your Grace, who you will be travelling with?” she asked. 

 

Egg chewed his cheek, thinking of what to say. The ghost gave a frantic glance between Egg and his not-as-dead-as-everyone-thinks sister. 

 

“If I may recommend Your Grace,” Ser Arthur cut in quickly. “You can trust her. Ashara is someone you want to have at your side.  She can help you make contact with your uncles in Dorne, and she has kept Prince Jaehaerys’s existence a secret. ” 

 

“How in the seven hells do you know about my brother?” Egg blurted out. He clapped a hand over his mouth and wished he could pull the words back to his tongue.  _  Shit. Shit. Shit.  _ He felt the blood drain from his face as he stared bug eyed at Ashara Dayne. 

 

She blinked rapidly, reeling back from his question. “How do you know about him?” she asked. “I’ve never said anything and the letters-”

 

“What letters?” he asks quickly, walking towards her. 

 

She gazed back at him in shock and confusion. “You never read the letters I kept? The ones from your parents?” she asked, baffled. 

 

Egg blinked stupidly at her. 

 

“I’m going to take that as a no,” she mumbled. “How do you know about him then?” she asked. “Most of the people who know about your brother died during the Rebellion. Including me, less than a handful of people even know he exists.” 

 

“Lord Stark, Lord Reed and a nursemaid from Starfall?” he asked, crossing his arms again. 

 

She gaped at him again. “There’s no way for you to know that,” she declared. “Unless,” she chewed her lip in thought for several moments. “Your Grace did Lord Varys send a message to you about him.” 

 

Egg sighed, feeling wary. Too tired and his belly to empty to allow his mind to spin a believable lie.  _ What would be the point of lying now, when I’ve gone and ruined it all already?  _ “None whatsoever,” he honestly responded. 

 

“Then how do you-”

 

Egg held up his hand. “Let’s make an exchange. You tell me how Lady Ashara Dayne became Septa Lenore, and I tell you how I know Jaehaerys.” 

 

She blinked at the name.  _  I keep digging this hole don’t I?  _ Egg actually kicked himself. 

 

He groaned and motioned for her to sit. He slumped down on his bed, rubbing his eyes with his hands.  _  Gods and Goddesses, Mother Elia, Mother Lyanna and Father are going to kill me for this. Jae’s going to be furious that I slipped about him of all things. None of the ghosts are ever going to let me live this down. What a stupid thing to say!  _

 

He kept his face in his hands, and his stomach growled ferociously. “I’ll tell you, Your Grace,” Sep-- Lady Ashara said softly. “If you’re willing to break your fast as I speak.” Egg looked up at her. She gazed at him with motherly concern plain on her face as she sat on his chair. 

 

Egg cracked a lopsided smile. “Only a true Dornish Woman would bargain with a king,” he managed to say as a sort of joke. 

 

She bit back a snort, but she smiled at him. He took the tray with him back to his bed and forsook manners to take a large bite of the fruit bread. 

 

“You know what many say of the Rebellion,” she began. Her smile vanished, as waves of memories clouded her eyes. “I was at the Red Keep with your mother, with Elia.” Her eyes shone with old tears. “The King…” she let out a weary sigh. “He demanded that you all remain in the Red Keep. But your mother, and the Queen,” she paused, as memories flickered behind her lilac eyes. “They knew that should enemies get into the castle, you’re life would have been endanger. It happened during the Dance of Dragons, cutthroats came in and…” 

 

“The men called Blood and Cheese slit Aegon II’s son and heir, Jaehaerys’s, throat,” Egg recited, not touching the cheese or meat on his tray. “Aegon the III married that prince Jaehaerys’s twin sister, Jaehaera, at the end of the Dance.” Egg felt his food curdle in his guts. 

 

She gave a jerk of a nod. “The Mad King had many enemies then, and Rhaegar had died at the Trident. The Queen knew her history well and understood the danger you were in as heir apparent. So she and Elia crafted a plan to get you out of King’s Landing.” She took a deep breath, finding her words. 

 

Egg patiently waited, his food forgotten. 

 

“I...I was with child at the time,” she explained. “I was to go back to Starfall and have my baby there. Elia asked that I take you with me. It was night and Elia...She bundled you in a warm blanket, and gave me a box of letters. Letters written by her, your father...Even one by Lyanna Stark,” A wistful, sad smile graced her face. It made her seem all the more beautiful and tragic. “She told me what Rhaegar had done, taking a second wife,” she tacked on. 

 

“What were those letters?” Egg asked quietly, almost afraid to say anything. 

 

“Letters between your parents. One from Lyanna to Elia. I added the ones your mother wrote to me as well. They talk and explain what really happened. Elia read all of them and gave them to me to keep safe.” She shook her head. “I’ve gotten ahead of myself,” she said. “But she gave me you and several important letters. And one letter from her to Lyanna.” 

 

Egg was leaning forward, eager to hear the rest. 

 

“I took you and the letters with me to Starfall. We fled the the city in the night and we made it to my old home,” she continued. “I was to give that letter to Lyanna personally, she was after all in a tower not far from Starfall.” Lady Ashara stared at her hands, and tears fell onto the back of them. “Elia said it was an explanation to Lyanna to take her babe and join you and me  and my baby to flee to Dragonstone with the Queen. But before I could, my daughter…” She fell silent and Egg instantly rose to gently cover her hand with his own. 

 

“My daughter was stillborn,” she continued in a hush. “And when I recovered, physically at least, from the birth, Ned was at Starfall with Arthur’s sword, Lyanna’s bones, and a purple eyed babe he called his own.” 

 

Egg glanced at the ghost and saw that Arthur too had tears streaking his face, head hung low.

 

“I never told Ned about you,” she continued, her words half-whispers as she began to regain control of her painful memories. “But I asked that he leave your brother with me. I promised Elia that I’d make sure you and Lyanna’s baby were safe from Robert Baratheon and Tywin Lannister. But Ned,” she smiled with a sad fondness that surprised Egg. And made Arthur scowl. 

 

“Ned,” she repeated, closing her eyes before looking back at her hands. “Ned made a promise to Lyanna, as she died. He swore that he’d protect her son. He was all he had of his sister, and Ned’s a good man who loves his family fiercely. So I played along with his lie and knew that your brother would be safe in Winterfell. But Ned never told me his real name. I knew from your Mother’s letters that Rhaegar hoped for a girl, a Visenya, but I never learned his true name.” 

 

Egg shifted uncomfortably from where he knelt before Lady Ashara. He could feel her eyes on his face. Egg sat down on the floor before her feet, not unlike when he was a boy and she just half-heartedly spoke of general knowledge of the Seven. He stared at his knee and picked at a loose thread of his trousers. 

 

“Do you believe in magic, Lady Ashara?” Egg asked in a small voice, not raising his eyes. 

 

“The maesters say magic has been gone from this world for generations,” she stated. 

 

He grimaced at the mention of the maesters. He and Jae know that there are maesters out there that would try and kill them to keep magic out of common knowledge. 

 

“I can prove them wrong,” Egg retorted.  

 

“Your Grace,” Ser Arthur murmured. 

 

Egg raised his head and looked at the ghost, not bothering to be discrete about it. The ghost of the last Sword of Morning looked at Egg and Lady Ashara. “Tell my sister-,” he swallowed, his scowling face tear streaked. “Ash wanted me to give her away when she planned on marrying Ned Stark.” 

 

Egg blinked in surprise. He never really thought much of the rumors they spoke of Lady Ashara and Ned Stark beyond it being a good cover to protect Jae’s true lineage. 

 

“You wanted Arthur to give you away on your wedding to Ned Stark,” Egg parroted, staring at her face. 

 

Unchecked shock painted her face, her eyes wide. “How did- there’s- that’s--” she stumbled over her words in an almost squeak. 

 

“Lady Ashara,” Egg beseeched. “What I’m about to tell you is true. By the Old Gods, the Gods and Goddesses of Valyria, by the Mother Rhoyne, it’s true.” He paused, and gave her an earnest, pleading look. “I see ghosts. Your brother, Ser Arthur, just told me about…” he trailed off not sure what would be a kind way of saying ‘a dream that never came to be.’ 

 

She stared at him in shock, before something flitted through her gaze. “Can you prove it again, Your Grace?” she asked. 

 

Egg blinked and turned to look at Arthur. The ghost blinked but smiled. “Still sharp,” he murmured approvingly. 

 

They spent the next few minutes like this: Arthur would say things and Egg repeated them. He spoke of how Ashara used to always swim in the Watergardens with Elia without fail. How she used to tease their older brother, now Lord Asric Dayne, about the one time he put his boots on the wrong feet when they were children. Egg thinks what really made her believe him was him repeating the song Arthur used to sing to get her to sleep when they were children. It was a short, childish song about falling stars and sunshine dreams, all made up by Arthur when he was seven years old. 

 

She looked at him with a new light in her eyes. “Arthur’s here telling you all of this,” she stated, casting her eyes to where Egg keeps turning to face the ghost. 

 

“Aye,” Egg murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. 

 

“Does he-?” she stuttered. “Is he--? Is he unhappy? With me and my choices?” She looked down at her lap, one hand rubbing her arm. 

 

“Never,” Arthur asserted. He knelt down next to his sister and placed a hand on her knee “We all made our choices. None of them were easy, Ash. But what matters to me is that you’re alive and doing well. All I want for you is to be happy,” he said, his rich voice thick with his bottled feelings. 

 

Egg swallowed the lump in his throat but managed to repeat Arthur’s words to his sister. But her smile still didn’t stop him from squirming at having to relay such words. 

 

It was silent for several heartbeats. “These ghosts you see have told you about your brother then Your Grace?” Lady Ashara asked. 

 

Egg nodded. “Jae sees them too. They travel between the two of us and keep a watch on the Red Keep for us,” he lamely explained. 

 

“Are they the reason why you’re leaving?” she asked. 

 

Egg sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “They told me that something is happening in the North. Something very, very important. I need to get to Jae before it starts or it’ll be too late,” he urgently spoke, his voice low. 

 

“The North?” she asked in a whisper. 

 

“I bargained passage to White Harbor with the Company of the Rose,” he said. “I’m owed a debt from the Captain and my passage was the negotiated price,” he explained at her shocked expression. “We leave tonight.” He looked at her and gave a small, melancholic smile. “Suppose I should say goodbye to you Septa Lenore,” he mused aloud. 

 

“Who says I’m letting you travel alone?” Lady Ashara retorted. 

 

Egg blinked back in surprise. “Lady-”

 

“No, Your Grace,” she asserted, her jaw set and her eyes ablaze with stubborness. “I swore to your mother that I would watch over you. I’m not going to be breaking my promise to her anytime soon.” 

 

“Lady Ashara it’s too risky,” he hissed. “I cannot guarantee that you’ll be unharmed if I should be found out on the voyage.” 

 

“I’m worried about you. Your mother entrusted you to me, and nothing short of death will make me abandon you now,” she declared. 

 

Egg was touched, his heart beating with vigor as warmth spread inside his chest. “You truly want to come?” he asked. 

 

She paused and a thoughtful expression crossed her face. At her nod, Egg began to think. His thoughts raced as he began to make some changes to his initial plans. “Alright, my lady,” he said. “We leave when the moon is at its highest. But before we jump ship, I was wondering if you’d help me with getting the last item I need for this trek.” 

 

She raised a black eyebrow at him, but to his pleasure there was an intrigued smile playing on her lips. “As you command, Your Grace,” she demurely answered with a sly voice. 

* * *

 

 

After the revelation that another Westerosi noble faked their deaths and is aboard the  _ Shy Maid _ , and reworking Egg’s initial plan for tonight, Egg and Ashara Dayne went about their day. Egg attended his last lesson with Jon, half listening to the man ramble about Daenerys marrying the Dothraki. He saw Princess Nymeria gaze at Jon with a ticking eyebrow that betrayed her lack of patience. 

 

He didn’t see what the huge fuss was about. The Dothraki are land-locked, and they’re currently travelling to Vaes Dothrak to celebrate, both Daenerys and Viserys in tow. 

 

_ Should I feel more upset that I will likely never meet them?  _ He silently mused as Jon ranted about words from the Pentoshi cheesemonger that housed his aunt and uncle before the marriage. He’s never met his aunt, and if he’s ever met his uncle he has no memory of it. All he knows of his Father’s siblings are relayed messages from ghosts and they don’t paint a flattering picture. 

 

_ No,  _ he decided,  _ they may be blood but I can’t think of them as family the way Jae and the ghosts are. And, _ he mused darkly, scowling to himself, _ if Viserys is truly mad, then I’ll have to fight him for my claim. He thinks he’s Father’s heir, calling himself a dragon, but if he learned he’s third in succession he may do something truly heinous or stupid to get the fucking crown for himself. _

 

He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. He couldn’t empty his mind so instead he focused on not laughing at his ancestor’s colorful rebuttals to Jon’s plan of trying to get word from Lord Varys. 

 

He left for lunch and passed by Lady Ashara, bumping into each other. “Apologise Your Grace,” she demurely said as she slipped a small vial into his pocket. Suppressing a smile he waved off her words and swaggered into the kitchen and got himself a bowl of goat stew. 

 

He ate at a leisurely pace, keeping an ear out for the bawdy conversations of the men of the Golden Company, seeing King Theon Stark gruffly speaking to Brandon the Shipwright. With a lick of his lips he left his bowl and spoon for the scullery maid to clean, he took a full wineskin in hand. He uncorked it with his teeth and took a pull as he left for his quarters, walking past guards of the Golden Company with their skull decorated spears.

 

When he slipped back into his quarters he emptied the contents of the vial into the wineskin and corked it back up. Placing the skin onto his table he slumped back down onto his bed and groaned. He ran his hands over his face, feeling his stomach churn, and not from the cheap wine. 

 

_ No backing out now,  _ he reminded himself. He closed his eyes and saw Jae’s smiling face, imagining his brother eagerly waiting for him to come to Winterfell. It made him smile. But his smile fell and he felt his resolve harden, remembering why he needs to get to Jae as soon as possible.  _ The Others will get Jae over my dead body,  _ he swore to himself.  _ Rhaenys is dead, our parents are dead. I’ll not lose Jae too.  _

 

He moved his hands and looked out into the room. Arthur Dayne and Gerold Hightower were in the room with him, staring at him. “When night falls, Your Grace?” Ser Gerold asked, his face as serious as his voice. 

 

Egg nodded, shifting a distrusting eye to the door. He rose and sat up, resting his elbows on his knees and his clasped hands before his mouth. He went over his new plan with Ashara in his mind again. 

 

“What news of Jae?” he mouthed to Ser Gerold. 

 

The knight gave him a fond smile. “He eagerly awaits your return to Westeros,” the ghost recalled. “He is in good spirits, and looks to have gotten a good night’s rest and a full belly.” 

 

“What was he doing when you saw him?” Ser Arthur asked good naturedly. 

 

“I interrupted him helping Lord Stark and Robert Stark learn the Old Tongue along with a Stark ghost. One Lord Stark called Syggerik of Skagos.” 

 

Egg snorted. He knows that ghost, he taught Egg as well. “Does Lord Stark know he’s learning from a King Beyond the Wall whose name is really Bael the Bard?” Egg asked. 

 

Ser Gerold shook his head. “Didn’t appear so, Your Grace,” he answered. “Although I could be mistaken. He was a tad shocked to see me in his solar.” 

 

Arthur gave a smirk. “Please tell me Gerry, that you were especially affectionate with Prince Jaehaerys when you saw who your audience was,” he asked, his Dornish lilt especially thick as his lilac eyes held a mischievous glint that made him truly seem as young as he was. 

 

Ser Gerold smiled, but his eyes held a similar glint, despite being many years older than Arthur. “As if he were my own grandson,” the White Bull of the Kingsguard remarked to the Sword of Morning. He looked back to Egg. “I hope I didn’t overstep my station, Your Grace,” he added. 

 

Egg waved his hand and a smile played on his lips. “Nay,” he airily noted. “Continue as long as you wish it good ser.” He looked to Ser Arthur. “You as well Ser Arthur. And Ser Oswell as well. You three were there for Jae since he came into this world, you should be allowed to care for him as you wish.” 

 

“You just want Ned Stark to squirm,” Ser Gerold snorted. 

 

“As do you,” Ser Arthur cut in. 

 

“I never denied wanting that,” the older ghost rebuked. 

 

“Then I won’t either,” Egg whispered with a nod. The three shared a chuckle, Egg stifling his with his teeth around his fist. 

 

They carried on like this, Ser Gerrold regaling about Jae to the two as Ser Arthur reveals the truth about Ashara and the changes in the plan. Egg contributing mutely or in whispers as the shadows grew longer and darker. 

 

They stopped when the sun had set. “It’s time, Your Grace,” Ser Arthur said, face set with determination. 

 

With an anxious nod, Egg stood and moved to the door, grabbing the wineskin with him. Before opening the door, he took a deep, calming breath and uncorked the skin. Then he put on a wide smile and loudly opened the door. He walked down the corridor, following the ghost of the White Bull with a stumble and swaying to his swagger. 

 

He followed Ser Gerold singing a very obnoxious rendition of the Bear and the Maiden Fair, staggering here and masterfully tripping over the flat floorboards. Ser Arthur walked with him, purposefully sticking his foot out every so often to make the incoordination more believable. 

 

Every so often Egg mimes taking a drink from the wineskin, putting his lips to it but not letting the drink slip to his tongue and only swallowing air and spit. He passes by members of the crew, answering in an airy slush of words, watching as they pass him with a snort, or a shake of the head. 

 

“King’s a young lad,” one Golden Company man said to his companion as they walked away. “Who hasn’t sneaked a bit of wine every now and then?” 

 

On the trio went before nearing their destination. There was a guard standing outside the door, a grim faced man no more than thirty, with a scarred lip and a sharp skull covered spear.    
  
In the hallway, Egg pretended to take a drink, Ser Arthur using his hands to make him sway as he walked. 

 

“Goo’ ev’nin’!” Egg called out before repeating a verse of the song, waving the wineskin about as he walked forward with the ghosts tripping him up. 

 

“What are you doing?” the guard asked with a sneer, tightening his grip on the spear. 

 

“Habin’ some fun. Too m’ny less’ns,” he whined, waving the skin about. He was about to mime another drink when it was removed from his hands. He blinked slowly, clutching the empty air a couple of times. 

 

“If you’re really going to be a king, you’ll have more to deal with than lessons,” the guard harshly rebuked, sneer deepening as he held the wineskin in his hand. He took a deep gulp of the wine. “Some king you’ll be, getting drunk because of having  _ too many lessons.”  _  He glared at Egg like he was something he stepped in before taking a deep drink from the wineskin. 

 

Egg felt himself burn, and the feel of Ser Arthur’s hand on the back of his neck helped him rein in his temper. 

 

“Fuck off, before Connington finds you,” the guard barks, jerking his head at Egg. “Fucker whines about everything ‘cept his precious Silver Princes, the cocksucker.” The guard took a greedy pull of the skin. 

 

Egg blinked slowly and spun in a circle before he began his slow assisted stumble away. He bit down on his tongue to keep his scathing retort bottled inside him. They left the hallway and rounded the corner waiting. 

 

Egg was fuming, the lantern by his head burning brighter and hotter, fueled by his temper. 

 

“Calm down, Your Grace,” Ser Arthur warned. “You can let your fury out when you and Ashara are safely travelling to White Harbor.  

 

Egg nodded, letting a hot breath out through his nose. To calm himself, he opened the lantern and stuck his hand in. The flames licked his palm with gentle kisses. He wiggled his fingers, watching the fire dance around the digits. 

 

Egg heard a heavy thump behind them in the hallway. Egg took the flame out and held it in his palm in lieu of a torch. They stood in front of the door.  He saw that the guard was snoring face first into the floorboards, next to a puddle of wine. 

 

“Fool should’ve tasted the added dreamwine before downing the bloody stuff,” Ser Gerold remarked as he stared down his nose at the man. 

 

“Well his pisspoor choice worked in our favor,” Egg remarked, snatching the key ring with his free hand. He put a key to the lock, but it didn’t work. Neither did the second or third key, but on the fourth try he heard the satisfying click of the door as it finally unlocked. 

 

Slowly opening the door, he held the flame against his cheek as he peered in. The little handheld flame shone on the room. It was empty save for a single table with a locked box lying on top of it. Egg slipped in and slowly shut the door behind him. 

 

He cautiously strode over to the box, moving his fire this way and that to check for any unexpected surprises. Coming across no hidden traps he made it to the box. 

 

It was a long, ebony box with an elegant golden lock. Egg flipped through the keys on the guard’s ring and found a small, polished gold key. He put it in the lock and couldn’t help but smile when it turned. 

 

He put his free hand on the lid and exhaled a tight breath. He curled his hand over the lid and gingerly lifted the lid, a slow squeak of the hinges filling the room. 

 

“Blackfyre,” he breathed, staring down into the box. The famous Valyrian sword lay inside the box. He’s seen drawings of the sword many times as he learned of his family. Even used to dream of wielding it as a boy. 

 

He carefully lifted it out of the box by the scabbard. It was lift in his hand, a hand-and-a-half sword with a pommel decorated with silver and dragonglass inlay. 

 

Ser Arthur stood next to him, raising the sword so that it peeked out of the scabbard. “This is Valyrian steel,” he said. “It must truly be Blackfyre.” 

 

Egg felt a sliver of giddiness enter his heart.  _  Never thought I’d see this sword.  _ With a nod to the ghosts he turned on his heel to make his swift getaway. 

 

But as he turned, the flame in his hand shined on the shocked face of a guard with a skull decorated spear. He was younger than the one Egg slipped the dreamwine to, a couple of years older than Egg and handsome with a dimpled chin. The shadow the hallway lantern casted made his shadow large and imposing.

 

“What’s going on here?” the young man asked, calculating eyes watching Egg. The grip on the shaft of his spear tightened. “Why do you have the sword?” 

 

Egg felt coldness spread through his guts, his mind horrified and blank. Egg gripped the scabbard closely. 

 

“Guards!” the young man screamed at the hallway. “The Targaryen has--!”

 

“Shut up!” Egg hissed, extinguishing the flame in his hand to place it on the hilt of the sword like he did when he practiced. But fear and adrenaline pumped through his veins. He’d never had a true fight before, only spars during practice.   

 

“Bastard!” the young guard bellowed and Egg jolted. “You think you can steal what’s ours!?” The guard lowered his spear, leveling it to Egg’s chest. The guard charged. 

 

The space was short and Egg sidestepped and spun past the tip of the spear. In the shadows the guard skidded to a halt before turning to face Egg. In the light peeking out from behind Egg he saw the glint of steel. 

 

Egg saw the steel grow closer as it entered the light. He unsheathed the sword and saw baleful eyes squarely pinned on his. Egg sidestepped and went out the door. 

 

The guard was quick to follow him, making another charge. Egg pressed against the wall and swung the sword, hoping to make the guard step back and move back the spear. 

 

But he didn’t step back. A deep gurgle escaped the guard’s lips as blood spurted from his mouth and down his dimpled chin. He moved one hand off of his spear to clutch at the large diagonal gash that went from his belly and to his exposed throat. The chainmail he wore was slashed, blood trickling from his torso, but his throat was sliced open, dark blood and twitching flesh being clamped by a large, shaking hand.

 

“Red...” the guard choked out before falling into a heap of his own blood next to the sleeping guard. His blood pooled out, and mingled with the wine, staining the floor a dark color just short of Egg’s worn boots. The guard’s handsome face was still twisted in a grimace as it lay in the deep red blood, his baleful gaze turned blank and lifeless.

 

Egg was frozen, sword still in hand. His mind screaming a deafening silence and he wanted to throw up at the all the red and smell of blood and wine. 

 

“We have to go, Aegon!” Ser Arthur shouted, wrapping an arm around Egg’s shoulder and turning him around. He grabbed Egg’s hand and made him sheath the sword before dragging Egg into a run. 

 

His mind starting to catch up with him, Egg ran as fast as he could. He slunk into shadowed corners and when he got on deck he stopped and hid behind a barrel of water. The deafening silence of his mind gave way as he felt the stale water in the barrel. Still, not very deep, and clean. He drummed the pads of his fingers against the barrel and felt the drink dance with his taps. He calmed down a bit, his eyes focusing back on reality.

 

There was a scream from a woman, and shouting echoed from inside the ship. Many grim faced guards came inside, clutching their spears, the gilded skulls glinting harshly in the moonlight and from the torches and lanterns they carried.

 

He saw several familiar heads and bodies. Ghosts of the Starks, Targaryens and Martells watching the deck and ship for him. “Go now!” Many ghosts screamed to Egg, having taken perches on deck to make sure Egg slipped away unseen.  

 

Egg didn’t need to be told twice. He ran across the deck and down the gangplank before a guard had the sense to block access to the dock. He went to the dock and kept running towards the village. He ran up the street a bit before sharply turning and running parallel to the shore. He passed a clothesline and snagged a short riding cloak that he haphazardly drew about himself as he ran.

 

After passing several houses, Egg made for the docks again. He came across the familiar sight of Captain Snow’s ship, the  _ Seawolf,  _ and saw lit lanterns illuminating deckhands preparing to make sail on the ships of the Company of the Rose.  His lungs ached and the muscles in his legs cinched into a bone crushing vice, but Egg made himself run to the ship. 

 

Lady Ashara was waiting for him with two rucksacks, his and one she packed for herself. “Your- Ae-” she gasped when she saw him. 

 

Egg was shaking when he finally stood still, and it wasn’t only from his run. Lady Ashara looked him over, her eyes lingering on Egg’s expression as the memory of the guard flashed in his mind, the smell of blood and wine lingering on his tongue. 

 

To Egg’s belated shock she violently tore the septa habit off her head, letting her long black hair loose. She wrapped the cloth around the hilt of Blackfyre. It didn’t cover the whole sword, but hid the ornate pommel that would have raised questions. 

 

Egg blinked and rasped out his thanks. He took both rucksacks and slung them over his shoulders. Lady Ashara pushed him up the gangplank with a hand on the small of his back. They walked at a quick pace, Egg gazing back in the direction of the Shy Maid in fear every third step. 

 

With a gentle shove, Egg and Lady Ashara were aboard the  _ Seawolf _ . They shuffled forward finding a spot where Egg could clearly see the sea and shore. The air was salty and he gasped as his memory of the guard he killed flickered back unwantedly. 

 

“What’s wrong, Y- Ionos?” Lady Ashara asked in a whisper, placing a small hand on his arm. 

 

Egg looked down at Blackfyre. He swallowed before finding his voice. “I… I got the sword, but- but there was… a guard showed up and I- and I-” Egg felt a lead weight sink inside him. “I killed him,” he admitted in a low whisper. 

 

“Oh, sweet boy,” she soothed, rubbing gentle circles onto his back. “I’m sorry you had to do so,” she murmured to him gently, her barely noticeable Dornish lilt almost as calming as Mother Elia’s. 

 

“I-I...” His words failed him, staying in his throat and retreating down to his leaden stomach. 

 

She took his face in her hands and made him look at him. Her hands were warm against his clammy cheeks. He stared at her lilac eyes looking back at him in a face painted with concern and kindness. 

 

“I may not have taken up a sword against another before, but I know well that killing a man is something that changes you,” she softly told him. “My brother was shaken too, the first time he had to do so. All good men with good and loving hearts are shaken by it,” she gently patted his thudding heart. 

 

Egg shook his head and he wasn't going to fool himself. He knows that there was no peaceful way to win back his family’s seat at Dragonstone and right the wrongs his predecessor dealt. He’s known for years that war was in his future, that he’d have to take up a blade to keep him and Jae safe. And that meant killing others to do so. But it’s one thing to abstractly talk about it, and another thing entirely to actually strike another person down. 

 

“Does it get any easier?” he forlornly asked. 

 

But before he got a reply the horn blew and the  _ Seawolf _ casted off the dock and into the harbor. The tide lurched and they made their way to the mouth of the harbor. Deckhands moved about to and fro, moving rigging and supplies. 

 

Captain Snow stood on deck at the helm, staring at the stars and tide with a stern look of concentration as he maneuvered the ship out towards the open waters of the Narrow Sea. 

 

_ “Captain!”   _ a middle aged man with a wooden eye asked in the Old Tongue.  _ “Is it true? Are we going to the North?”  _ the man asked in barely suppressed excitement. 

 

Captain Snow waved at his wife and she strode over to him and took the helm. After giving her a kiss on the cheek he left the helm and moved further to the edge of the upper deck to address his crew and audience. 

 

He stood up on the deck with a regality and confidence that made you stare twice at. His long brown hair was tied back, allowing Egg to see the earnest expression on his face. 

 

 _“Aye, we go North,”_ the captain answered in the Old Tongue, to which the crew cheered loudly. Then the captain held his hand up, silencing them. _“But men, ladies, it is not for joy or leisure that we go home!”_ A heavy silence fell over them all, like a blanket smothering a fire. 

 

_ “For thousands of years the North has stood watch against the Others!”  _ Captain Snow called out. Egg gasped, earning a confused look from Lady Ashara. 

 

_ How could he know of the Others?  _

 

_ “My kin at Winterfell are the ones who must stand against them as we had done ten thousand years ago! It is my duty to do so now.”  _ The captain then moved his hand under the collar of his tunic and removed his fist, clenching something that was attached to a leather string he wore around his neck. 

 

He moved his fist and held out the object. Everyone gasped, some crying out. Captain Snow held a black stone in his hand, and it bore runes and marks that were glowing blue. 

 

_ “The Stark who holds Winterfell has woken the runes that protect the living from the dead! But he needs this half of the Key! For three hundred years my family has guarded this relic, knowing that when the time comes, we must stand with Winterfell for this is a war for the First Men! And are we not the First Men!”  _

 

The battle cry from the crew was a deafening roar and Egg could feel his heart beat like a wardrum as he listened to them. 

 

_ “The Snows of House Stark stand with Winterfell!”  _ several voices called out in tandem with the Captain’s.

 

_ “Hoist the colors!”  _  Captain Snow ordered. Up on the mast, a large gray sheet unfurled to show a snarling white wolf. And Egg felt a smile fall on his lips as the crew cheered. 

 

Egg heard shouts being carried over the water, and looked out to the accompanying ships to see sigil bearing sheets unfurl like lords and ladies declaring fealty. Bolton. Ryswell. Umber. Mormont. Tallhart. Karstark. Forrester. Manderly. Liddle. Norrey. Reed. Fenn. Marsh. Dustin. Cerwy. 

 

“A Northern fleet…” Lady Ashara quietly whispered as she stared out across the water in shock, staring and recognizing the sigils that surround them. 

 

_ “To the North!”  _ Captain Snow screamed, holding the glowing stone above his head like a beacon. 

 

_ “The North! The North! The North!”  _ the crew called back, raising their fists with every cry. The same cries carried over from the other ships, and it sounded like thousands of men and women of the First Men were calling out  _ “The North! The North! The North!”  _

 

Ghosts from House Stark, and other houses of the First Men were on the ship. The ghosts were crying out  _ “The North! The North! The North!” and “First Men! First Men!” _

 

Egg felt some deep part of him wake to the voices of the First Men, both living and dead. Perhaps it’s the blood of the First Men that he carries. But Egg joined them, his voice becoming lost with the army of cries for the North. 


	19. Arya I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya has a discussion and takes up a new lesson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for not uploading for so long! My life went down the toilet for a while and I got busy with university. Here's a new chapter, I hope you all like it!

Thunk! The arrow landed on the bullseye. “Yes!” Arya cheered as Bran made his first perfect shot. Bran grinned wide as he inspected his shot. Ser Rodrik gave him an approving nod. Arya leaned and ruffled her brother’s pin-straight auburn hair. “It’s about time!” she told him with a sly grin. 

 

Bran rolled his eyes at her and gave her a half-hearted shove. “Shove off it,” he replied, “I’ll be a knight someday, you’ll see.” 

 

“A knight?” Jon’s voice interrupted from behind them. Arya and Bran spun on their heels to see Jon and Robb walking towards them, Rickon tailing them. 

 

Arya grinned. “Jon!” she called out happily, rushing towards him, bow in hand, to hug him. He returned the hug, his warm arms lifting her off her feet before putting her back down. 

 

“I feel so loved,” Robb deadpanned as he looked at them. Jon laughed at him, a warm laugh that brightened Robb’s face. 

 

“Shut up,” Arya retorted before hugging him too. He laughed and hugged her back. 

 

“I think that’ll be it for today,” Ser Rodrik called out, giving all of them a warm grin. “Lord Robb, Jon, I expect to see you two back for a practice in the ring.”  They sent him off with an affirmative answer.

 

“Where have you two been?” Bran asked after he had put his bow away. 

 

“In the solar with Father,” Robb answered as Jon took Arya’s training bow and put it away for her, Rickon following him like a baby duck. When Jon turned around he picked Rickon up and balanced him on his hip. Rickon gave a content smile as he held Jon’s shirt in his fist as they came back to join them. 

 

“What have you been doing in there?” Arya asked, furrowing her eyebrows at her brothers. Father never keeps secrets, yet first he would hole up in the solar with Jon, and now Robb has been hiding away with them. It marginally improved Mother’s mood, but Arya knew that she wished Jon would be elsewhere as much as she wished Arya would go back to embroidery. 

 

“Lessons,” they replied in tandem. 

 

“What sort of lessons?” Bran asked staring his blue eyes at them intensely. 

 

Jon and Robb looked at each other, speaking in what Bran calls the Language of Eyebrows. Jon’s face was placid and he shrugged his shoulders as Rickon decided to play with a long black curl in his boredom. Robb looked thoughtful and his expression matched Father’s with his creased brow and set mouth. 

“Old histories of Winterfell and our House,” Robb finally admitted, scratching his hairy chin. “And some other things,” he vaguely tacked on. 

 

Jon snorted and gave Robb a crooked smile. “Eloquent as ever,” he jibed to their eldest brother. 

 

Robb gave a huff, but his look to Jon was warm and his voice jesting. “I’m a man of the North. Flowery words that people half-know are meant for Southron lords with perfumed beards and their tittering ladies.” 

 

“Aye, you don’t need to convince  _ me _ that you’re Northern, Robb,” Jon said seriously for some reason. Then he gave that crooked smile that brightened his long face and made his eyes twinkle purple. “Though even if you weren’t, you don’t even have a beard to perfume.” 

 

“It’s coming in!” Robb squawked, making Arya and Bran and Rickon giggle. Robb reached a hand out and pinched Jon’s smooth cheek and held on. Robb squinted at the milky flesh. “Yet a hair to be seen on your pretty face, Jon.” 

 

Jon swatted his hand away and rubbed at the now reddening cheek with a half-heated scowl. “‘Pretty?’ Really Robb?” Jon asked in a sulk. 

 

“It’s the truth,” Robb defended. “You could be wearing a dress and have flowers in your hair and no one would think twice of it.” 

 

At that Arya and Bran snorted and giggled as Jon sulked and scowled. 

 

Jon turned to Rickon and pouted at the toddler on his hip. “Rick, Robb’s making fun of me again,” he mock-whined. Rickon leaned a bit and gave Robb a hard look that he no doubt learned from Father. 

 

“What?” Robb asked innocently. “Don’t you think he’s pretty Ricky?” He asked, cupping Jon’s face to make him stare at the youngest Stark. 

 

Rickon lost his hardness and stared at Jon with innocent river blue eyes. Then he hugged Jon around the neck and buried his face in the curtain of long black hair. “Sorry Jon, I think you’re pretty too,” he mumbled into the curls. 

 

Jon patted Rickon’s back gently and scowled at Robb, and at Arya and Bran for snickering. “If it helps,” Arya managed to cut in. “I think you’re prettier than Sansa.” Jon pinched the bridge of his nose as Robb guffawed. 

 

“And definitely more than me,” Arya added on thoughtlessly. Jon stopped his actions and looked at Arya with a hurt glance. Jon passed Rickon to Robb, not seeing his pout, and he went and leaned to look Arya in the eye, hands gently resting on her shoulders. 

“Arya,” he said earnestly, the dark purple eyes looked deep and saddened. 

 

“It’s true,” she grumbled, looking to the side. “Everyone says so. I’m not a lady and I’m not pretty.” 

 

“Who told you that?” Father’s voice interrupted, sharp and gruff. 

 

They all turned and saw Father standing behind them, his long face still, but his eyes were sharp. Winter was standing at his side as usual, the faintest rumble of a growl matching Father’s held back ire.

 

“Erm,” she spluttered. “When did you get here?” she asked as she stared at Father in surprise. 

 

“I came out to walk and show Winter the grounds some more,” he answered her, voice more even than before. “And you’re avoiding my question.” 

 

Arya screwed her mouth closed and didn’t say anything. 

 

Father sighed and ran a hand through his brown hair. “Boys,” he said to her brothers, gathering all their attention. “Robb, I want you to write a letter to Lord Manderly on my behalf asking for any news of unknown ships approaching White Harbor. Send it to Maester Luwin as soon as possible.” Robb nodded, passing Rickon back to Jon before heading off back to the castle. 

 

“Jon,” he said looking to her brother with a thoughtful pause. “I want Bran and Rickon to start learning the Old Tongue. Get them started with small lessons for now so Arya and Sansa can catch up too.” 

 

Arya stared at Father in shock. “How’re we going to learn the Old Tongue?” Bran asked, puzzled. “Maester Luwin said it died out ages ago.” 

 

“It did not,” Father said. “Jon learned as a boy and now he’s going to teach you.” 

 

“So Maester Luwin was lying,” Bran deduced matter of factly. 

 

“No,” Jon said with a shake of his head. “He taught you what he believed and was taught as truth, but in actually it’s been kept alive by the First Men in secret for it’s been illegal for three hundred years to speak anything but the Common Tongue.” 

 

“Can you speak the Old Tongue then Father?” Bran asked. 

 

“Some,” he answered, “but Jon is fluent, having mastered the language from a young age.” 

 

“You can?” Rickon asked with sparkling eyes full of wonder. 

 

Jon smiled and opened his mouth. But no words that Arya had ever heard before came from his lips. The words were of distinct syllables that flowed in Jon’s silvery voice that curled on some and rolled other parts. 

 

Arya and her younger brothers stared at Jon in amazement, gaping at him like fishes on land. “I want to learn the Old Tongue!” she cried excitedly. 

 

“And you will,” Father promised, putting a heavy hand on her thin shoulder, looking down at her. “After you and I have, what seems to be, a much needed conversation.” 

 

Arya sagged and scowled. Jon gave her an apologetic look before walking off with Rickon on his hip and Bran keeping step with him. 

 

The air hung tense between them as they both remained silence. “Arya, will you please tell me who has been giving you grief?” he asked in a low voice, his hand still on her shoulder. 

 

“No one,” she simply replied with a shrug. 

 

He gave her a questioning look. He stared at her steadily and Winter must have noticed because she sat on her haunches, staring at Arya in tandem. A chilly breeze fluttered by them. “It’s your sister and her friend Jeyne, isn’t it?” 

 

“Father, please, I’m used to it. It’s nothing that you need to make anything of.” She argued stubbornly. “It’s what we do,” she said trying to dissuade him from getting upset.  _ I’m not some little girl to go off crying just because my feelings are hurt. I’m a wolf, wolves are strong, they’re fighters.  _ “I tell them they’re stupid for liking embroidery and love stories and they call me horseface and underfoot. It’s all stupid and just between us three.” 

 

Father grimaced at her words and she silently cursed herself for not making him understand that this was just normal for her and that he doesn’t need to get involved. A cold air brushed against her, making her shudder slightly. 

 

“Come walk with me, Arya,” he beckoned, leading he by the shoulder. Winter gave a deep bark that got Father looking back at her. He stared at Winter for a moment before waving at her. She got up, stretched and trotted off back towards the keep.

 

It was tense for a moment. “Do you think the pups will be here soon?” she asked, eyeing Winter’s round, heavy belly with interest and hoping to put Father’s mind on another topic. 

 

“Aye,” he responded, managing a small smile as he looked at the Direwolf. “She’s made a habit now of stealing your mother’s side of the bed lately. She’s worried Winter is going to give birth in our shared bed.” 

 

“After she does, can I have one of the pups?” she asked eagerly. 

 

“If Winter and the pup lets you,” Father answered with wolfish smile that she found infectious. 

 

Father, to her surprise led her to the glasshouse. She frowned, wondering what fruits, vegetables and flowers have to do with anything. Father led her in and steered Arya towards the section with flowers. 

 

“What are we doing here?” she asked, confusion clear in her face and voice. 

 

“Something I learned when I was some years older than Robb and Jon was that there are various types of beauty in the world,” Father said, kneeling on the dark earth so he was more of a height with her. She wanted to groan and walk off when she realized that Father wasn’t going to let this stupid talk of being pretty go. He pointed to a brightly colored, dainty looking windflower. “Some are beautiful but shatter at the first gust of cold and wind. That’s the sort of beauty, at least according to my mother, you find between the North and Dorne.” 

 

Arya turned quickly to stare at her father in surprise.  _ Father never speaks of his family save for Uncle Benjen and Uncle Jon Arryn.  _ Despite herself she found herself intrigued by what he has to say. 

 

Then he pointed to a bush. It was big and unruly with thick gray tipped thorns covering the stems and jagged leaves. “But this is a special sort of beauty,” he told her as he stood. He moved to the bush and began to slowly part the leaves and thorn riddled stems with his bare hands. “Come and see,” he called, jerking his head at the bush. 

 

She did as he bid and peered at the shrub. She gasped. There was a small, blue rose just past its budding, the rich blue petals just beginning to unfurl. “Perhaps it doesn’t start off dainty and waifish like a windflower, but when it blooms it’s undeniably beautiful.” 

 

“My father said my mother and sister were much like this rose here,” he said, a sad smile touching his face. “They were Starks through and through, but they bloomed into true Northern beauties as I am sure you will as well.” 

 

“How can you be so sure?” Arya asked with a frown, her chest squeezing inside itself despite her thoughts that being worried about her looks made her as stupid as Sansa and Jeyne.  

 

“Because my sister was a great beauty, and you look just as she did when she was your age,” Father explained gently. 

 

“I do?” she asked, curious and eager to learn more about her mysterious aunt Father never spoke of before now. 

 

“Aye,” he said, giving her a smile and a near teary glance. “And not just her face, but you match her spirit as well. Lyanna was a fighter, and bold in her actions and words like a true Northern daughter. She was beautiful like this flower here, but she had steel beneath her beauty. As I see in you, Arya.” 

 

She mulled over her thoughts, digesting all that Father said to her. Her chest felt like it was being compressed like a blacksmith’s bellows, and her words felt sticky in her throat. “Being pretty isn’t important,” she mumbled, her stubbornness thick in her voice. 

“ _ Rhosyn y gaeaf, _ ” Father murmured to her. “I know looks aren’t what one should solely focus on.” He covered the winter rose and knelt to look at her. “It’s only that I hear you speak of it and I remember my own childhood.” 

 

“Your childhood?” she echoed. 

 

He nodded. “Aye,” he began. “As you know I wasn’t meant to inherit Winterfell. I was just the spare son. And Brandon,” he gave a distant look over her head and a melancholic smile crept on his face. “He thankfully never said it, but the servants and the maester praised him for his boldness and his good looks. I believe your mother once praised that he had a jaw like an anvil the one time they met.” 

 

Shocked that her mother would say so, Arya scowled and felt indignant for her Father. 

 

“Peace, Arya, I overheard her talking to her friend back when we all thought she and your uncle would be wed. But yes, around Brandon all I heard was praise and praise when my Father wasn’t scolding him for his love of trouble making. And I was always the plainer brother, the quiet one.” He answered with a shrug. 

 

A cold breeze brushed her cheek, and played a bit with Father’s hair. Arya frowned, unsure of how to feel about what he just said.

 

“Even if I get pretty I don’t want to be some prancing lord’s broodmare,” she insisted. “That’s not me.” 

 

“I don’t want that either,  _ rhosyn y gaeaf _ .”he said earnestly. “All I desire of you, and all my children is for you all to be happy.” 

 

“Archery makes me happy,” she said with a wide grin. 

 

“Aye,” he laughed. “And you’re good at it too. Perhaps we should teach you something else, if you’re to be Winterfell’s shieldmaiden.” 

 

“What’s a shieldmaiden?” she asked excitedly, liking the sound of the name. 

 

Father gave her a small smile. “When I was a small boy, my mother told me many stories of the North. Stories she learned at the knee of her mother. And in some of those stories were the legends of the shieldmaidens. Women of the First Men who refused to sit by and wait for their men to come home from battle, and took up arms to stand side by side with them.” 

 

“Really?” she asked, eager and intrigued. 

 

“Aye,” Father confirmed with a nod. “In the days of old, battles of the First Men were fought by all the First Men, men and women. Some shieldmaidens went on to form their own Houses, or joined and strengthened others.” 

 

“Are there any shieldmaiden Houses still around Father?” she asked quickly. 

 

“House Mormont is the last one still existing,” he said, voice touched with sadness. “Time has not always been kind to the North and the First Men.” 

 

Arya was quiet for a moment. “Is Lady Mormont a shieldmaiden?” Arya asked.

 

“She’s more fond of a mace than a shield, but aye. She fought alongside me when the Mad King demanded my head during the Rebellion,” at the mention of King Robert’s Rebellion, Father winced and didn’t look at her. “Her daughters as well, save perhaps her youngest due to her age.” 

 

“Did Winterfell have shieldmaidens?” she asked. 

 

Father scratched his beard, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Bran the Builder’s wife stood alongside him during the Long Night with her direwolf. There were a few Stark Women who were not shy of battle with direwolves at their sides. But we’ve not had a true shieldmaid like the Mormonts do in a very long time.” 

 

She felt herself grin. “Then I’ll be Winterfell’s shieldmaiden,” she promised. “Bran can be a knight, and I’ll be a shieldmaiden.” 

 

Father looked at her and smiled, his gray eyes bright with pride. “And you’ll be the fiercest one Winterfell has ever seen,” he said, giving her a kiss on her brow. 

 

A chilly breeze passed her cheek and Father went rigid. He stood up and walked briskly out the glasshouse. “What’s wrong Father?” she asked following after him. 

 

“Winter is having her pups,” he said. 

 

Arya blinked. “How do you -- ” she was cut off by a loud, long, howl coming from the keep. “Will she be okay?” she asked in concern. 

 

“Gods willing I hope so,” he answered, quickening his pace with Arya matching his steps, but since she’s short she was almost running to keep up. She grabbed his big calloused hand to keep up with him and he gave her hand a light squeeze.

 

She followed her father inside and they followed Winter’s loud howls and whines. They stood outside Father and Mother’s shared chambers. 

 

“Cat’s not going to like this,” Father grumbled to himself, and Winter let out a low growl. Father sighed and ran a hand down his long face. He mumbled something in what Arya thought was the Old Tongue. 

 

Then she remembered something. Father spoke something she didn’t understand back in the glass houses. When she plainly told him so he looked at her. 

 

“ _ Rhosyn y gaeaf, _ ” he said, and cupped her cheek with a large calloused hand. 

 

“Ros is a girl’s name,” Arya noted, remembering Theon talking about some girl from Wintertown before. 

 

Father gave her a warm smile. “ _ Rhosyn y gaeaf, _ ” he repeated, slowly, letting the syllables fall evenly. “It means winter rose,” he explained. 

 

“ _ Rhosyn  _ means rose?” she asked. 

 

“Aye.  _ Gaeaf _ means winter,” he added.

 

She looked between the door, where she could hear Winter having her pups, and back to Father. He looked at the door, his brows furrowed in worry. 

 

“How do you say ‘Winter is Coming’ in the Old Tongue?” she asked. 

 

_ “Mae'r gaeaf yn dod,”  _ Father said, his words slow and evenly paced. 

 

She slowly tried the words out. Father patiently repeated himself, slowing his words down and repeating certain syllables that jumbled in her mouth awkwardly. It took a few tries but she managed to say her House words in a decent enough manner. 

 

Footsteps were heard and Arya turned to see all her brothers coming towards them. “Is Winter doing okay?” Rickon asked, still atop Jon’s hip and holding black curls in a tight grip as he looked to Father with clear concern. 

 

Father turned and placed his ear against the door. “I think she’s doing well Rickon,” Father assured him. 

 

“What were you three doing while I was at the ravenry?” Robb asked, looking at Jon. 

 

“Jon’s teaching us the Old Tongue!’ Brandon crowed happily.  “ _ Helo dad!”   _ he called out with a wide grin.  “ _ Helo dad!”  _ Rickon called from Jon’s hip. 

 

Father smiled at them. “ _ Heno meibion,”  _ he called back to them. 

 

Arya looked at their father. He looked at her with a smile and an encouraging wave of his hand. She crossed her arms over her chest and stared at her brothers with a proud grin.  _ “Mae'r gaeaf yn dod,”  _ she told them, slowly pronouncing her words to make sure she got all of the syllables right. 

 

Bran and Rickon looked puzzled, while Robb and Jon shared surprised looks before smiling at her. 

 

“Aye, winter is coming,” Jon said with a nod to her. They were smiling at each other, but heard something from the otherside of the door that got their attention. Winter was heavily panting, but mingled with that was a series of squeaks and high pitched whines. 

 

Father went to the door, and opened it a crack to peer inside. Arya slunk under him and looked in as well. She saw Winter curled up on the large bed, her head nuzzling and licking slimy little bundles that crowded around her middle. 

 

“The pups are here!” she cried out in excitement. 

 

One of the little pups squeaked and wiggled at the sound of her voice. Father gently shushed her as Winter tiredly moved her large head to look at her with half-lidded eyes. Bran shoved her to get a look inside and she shoved him back. Father moved them back and closed the door as gently as possible. 

 

“Let Winter rest with her pups,” Father told all of them calmly. “And all of you go have your lessons in the Old Tongue.” He sent them off with a gesture of the hand. 

 

“Where should we have these lessons?” Robb asked, raising an eyebrow in genuine curiosity. 

 

“The Godswood,” Father replied instantly. “And if anyone bothers or interrupts your lessons you all will have them in my Solar or in Robb’s or Jon’s rooms. I’ll talk to Sansa about learning the Old Tongue and if she wishes to learn I’ll have her join you.” 

 

Arya frowned at the idea of having to share lessons with Sansa again. Father caught her look. “You may not always get along with your sister but remember that the lone wolf dies while the pack survives,” he told her. 

 

“Sansa won’t want to learn if Jon’s teaching though Father,” she tries to reason. “She won’t even talk to him at meals and constantly calls him her low-born half-brother and bastard and other rot to others. She’s horrible to him Father! Don’t make Jon teach her, please!” 

 

She felt a hand on her shoulder and saw Jon looking at her. His long face was still, but his eyes were dark and looked at her with a barely perceptible appreciation, like he was trying to hide it. 

 

She felt a draft in the hallway by her arm. Father bristled but he took a deep breath and exhaled. He ran a hand over his face and had a grave look as he mumbled something into his hand. 

 

“If she comes, I’ll teach her Lord Stark,” Jon eventually says. “But I don’t think Lady Stark would appreciate my doing so.” 

 

Everyone around Jon, save Rickon and Bran, winced. Father looked grim and thoughtful as another draft picked up. “Keep these lessons a secret between us for now. As the law forbidding the use of the Old Tongue has never been formally revoked, it may be best to speak it only when we are in private, aye?” 

 

They nodded, seeing Father’s logic. “I’ll tell your mother my decision to have you all learn the language, and despite what she may say, I want all of my children to speak the tongue of our ancestors. I desire for you all to speak it better than I one day,” he says to them. 

 

He looks to her younger brothers. “I never asked earlier, but Bran, Rickon, do you two want to learn the Old Tongue?” he asks them. 

 

They both nod enthusiastically. “It’s fun!” Rickon tacks on with a grin. “I like it!” 

 

Father gives a small smile at their eagerness. “Then I encourage you both to learn it,” he said. “All of you go to the Godswood and continue your lessons.” 

 

“What about the pups?” Robb asked, glancing at the door. 

 

“If you’re asking when you can go and see them, give it some time,” Father said simply. “Give them some time to grow and then we’ll see what to do from there.” 

 

They all nodded and went off down the stairs. “What have you taught Bran and Rickon?” Arya asked Jon. 

 

He gave a glance to her before readjusting Rickon on his hip. “A few words. A basic introduction,” he answered. “Earlier they said ‘hello Father.’”

 

“Father said earlier that you learned it when you were younger. Who taught you?” She asked, frowning as she asked. 

 

“Someone who died,” Jon replied vaguely, looking ahead. They were nearing the Godswood, the large Heart tree coming into view.  

 

Arya turned to Bran and caught his eye. He nodded somberly, silently letting her know that he was told the same thing. 

 

“Okay, but who were they?” she insisted as she kept pace with her brother. 

 

“Arya, please,” Robb said placatingly. “If you keep pestering Jon about his dead teacher you’ll lose time to learn the tongue yourself.” 

 

Arya’s mouth set in a stubborn, firm line and she was about to ask Jon again when a cold wind went past her. Both Robb and Jon went rigid and looked at each other with worried glances. 

 

“What’s wrong?” Rickon asked, tilting his head in a puppyish manner. 

 

“Nothing Rickon,” Robb said giving him a smile and ruffling his hair. 

 

“But you two looked worried about something,” Arya insisted, crossing her arms as she looked between her older brothers. “What is it?” 

 

“It’s nothing Arya,” Jon sighed. 

 

She opened her mouth to disagree when Robb loudly clapped his hands together. 

 

“Right!” he said loudly, looking towards the Godswood. “Jon how about you teach them runes? Runes are simple enough to start with.” 

 

_ “Ie, ie,”  _ he drawled at Robb as he kept walking on with Rickon on his hip.  _ “Rydych chi'n siarad gormod, Robb.”  _

 

Robb frowned. “I feel like you’re mocking me,” he grumbled. Jon gave him a slippery smile that made Robb huff. 

 

“How much of the Old Tongue do you know?” Bran asked Robb as they entered the Godswood. 

 

“Some,” Robb said as he walked towards the Heart tree. “I know enough phrases and words to have a very short conversation. I’d like to more since  _ Rydw i o'r Gogledd. _ ” 

 

“Aye, you’re of the North, but remember Robb much of the North has forgotten how to speak the Old Tongue,” Jon remarked as they went under the red canopy of leaves. 

 

They all sat amidst the bone white roots of the Heart Tree. Arya was next to Jon while Robb took his other side. Bran was sitting on Robb’s other side and Rickon made himself comfortable in Jon’s lap. Not that Arya blamed him, since she used to do the same thing when she was smaller and learned that Jon ran the warmest and therefore gave the best hugs. 

 

Jon leaned forward, making sure not to crush Rickon and stuck his finger into the damp earth. He made a series of five marks comprised solely of straight lines and made a sound as he made each one.  “This is some of the runic alphabet and how to say them,” Jon said when he leaned back against the tree. “I’ll show you some more when you memorise these,” he promised. 

 

“Why do they look like that?” Bran asked, making vague chopping motions with his hand. 

 

“Originally the runes weren’t written on paper,” Jon answered. “They were carved onto wood and stone and bronze. So the marks had to be easy to carve.” 

 

“Even on paper and parchment they look like that,” Robb tacked on. Arya turned and saw that he was pulling a piece of parchment out of his pocket. He unfolded it and she saw runes and letters of the Common Tongue written in Robb’s hand. 

 

“Where’d you get that?” she asked, eyeing the writing intensely. 

 

“Father found lots of writings like this in the Solar,” Robb confided in a low voice. “I copied this down so I could practice on my own time.” 

 

“You three will get to that later,” Jon remarked kindly. “Why don’t you three copy those runes.” He pointed to a rune and made a sound. They repeated several times before sticking their fingers in the dirt to write it themselves. They repeated this several times since Jon would gently correct them in writing and pronouncing the rune. And they repeated this for the next rune. 

 

While they were doing that Arya heard Robb sluggishly read aloud his parchment. He was slow and doubled back to make corrections several times, and stopping every now and then to as Jon about a word or phrase he was unsure about. 

 

Arya frowned and buckled down to memorise the runes. 

 

They continued learning the five runes until all three of them could draw them in the dirt without making a mistake. “Show us more!” Bran asked, eager to learn more. 

 

Jon smiled and drew another five runes into the dark earth next to the first set. As he drew he made the sounds the runes make. Arya dove in, practicing each rune vigorously. Eventually when the three youngest Starks got the hang of those ten runes, Jon praised each of them in turn with pats on the head. 

 

Then Jon leaned forward again and he wrote something using some of the runes he taught them. Arya romed her eyes over the word and grinned when she read it. 

 

“Stark!” Rickon happily cried, pointing at their House name written in runes with a dirty little finger. 

 

“Aye, tis your family name,” Jon praised kindly. 

 

Arya frowned. “Your a Stark to me Jon,” she seriously told him. “I don’t care if your name is different from mine, you’re my brother now and always.” 

 

He looked at her, remaining silent. His dark eyes shone flecks of purple when the bits of lights came through the gaps in the weirwood leaves and he gave her a melancholic smile. 

 

Robb put an arm around Jon and pulled him to his side. “You heard Father earlier. The pack survives, and you’re part of our pack,” he said in a low voice to Jon that barely carried in the silent Godswood. “Stark blood runs through your veins and you have a place here in Winterfell, whatever your name is brother,” Robb added in a tone that seemed like he was reminding himself that as well as Jon. 

 

Jon lowered his head, hiding his face behind a curtain of inky curls. “I believe I’ve heard those words before,” he says with his crooked smile. 

 

Robb huffs and pulls him closer. “Shut up,” he gruffly says. 

 

“Make me,” Jon challenges with sparkling eyes. 

 

“I think not,” Robb dismisses with a smirk before pinching both of Jon’s cheeks with his fingers. And making him smile.  “Who else will teach our lovely siblings how to speak and read the Old Tongue?” 

 

“Ravv,” Jon garbled as Robb kept hold of his cheeks. He swatted Robb’s hands and rubbed his now red cheeks with a pinched look. 

 

“Want me to kiss it better?” Robb asked with a mischievous grin. 

 

Jon answered by tugging sharply at the red hairs on Robb’s chin. Robb yelped and rubbed at his chin when Jon let go. “Want me to kiss it better?” Jon asked, raising a black eyebrow imperiously at Robb. 

 

“I’m going to knock you on your back in the training ring,” Robb promised with a grin. 

 

“Before or after I knock you on yours?” Jon asked, mirroring his grin. 

 

Arya, Bran and Rickon laughed behind their hands. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I'm so sorry for not updating on schedule! Hope to do better next time. 
> 
> Note:   
> Since there's only a handful of words canonically for the Old Tongue, I just used Welsh from google translate to substitute for the sake of the chapter. I chose Welsh because I remember seeing a documentary on Game of Thrones and apparently it's based heavily on the War of the Roses which took place in the UK so I chose a language from that area. Please forgive any errors I made with the Welsh used, I used google translate because I don't know the language myself.


	20. Aegon V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aegon made some progress on his journey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays! I'm so sorry it took so long! But here's the newest chapter, and I hope you like it! Let me know what you think in the comments, I'm eager to hear your thoughts.

Egg rose from his cabin with a groan and stretched his limbs out. His quarters on the Sea Wolf were less comfortable than those on the Shy Maid. For one he had a hammock and he shared the room with a deckhand named Breck who was currently snoring like a dying aroch.

 

Egg had apologized profusely when Lady Ashara met the Captain after they set sail. She insisted on staying by Egg’s side and told the captain that she’d not leave him alone to travel to Westeros. Thankfully Captain Dorrhen Snow was gracious and amused enough to give Lady Ashara lodging with a bed and two female bunkmates after Egg insisted, to her consternation, on paying her passage aboard the _Sea Wolf_.  Aside from the wrapped sword and his now lighter coin purse, all the valuables they had were in Lady Ashara’s cabin. He’s seen the captain only once since boarding, and that was to ask for a space for Lady Ashara, who is still going by Lenore.

 

Egg briefly went over to the bucket in one corner of the room that held sea water and washed his face. He changed his tunic to a light working shirt and tied a cloth around his head to hide the silver roots of his hair. He grimaced as he mentally scolded himself over the fact that he never went and got more hair dye, but he would make do.

 

“Wake up ye sorry sacks of shit!” the bosun gruffly yelled out as he went about wake up duty. A loud bugle was the intermediate between bellows. “We’ve a long way North and you sons of whores need to get yer arses moving! Now!”

 

Breck scrambled off his hammock and the two filed out quickly to get to the deck. There were a few women from the kitchens passing hardtack bread to them to break their fasts. Thankfully these ones were relatively fresh and were chewable without having to soak the things in water or beer.

 

Egg stuffed his face and went about the rigging, checking the knots and hauling buckets of sea water to clean the ship and crew with. The sun had just begun to rise, painting the sharp horizon with warm pinks and oranges. The salty air was crisp and the wind gusting the sails was familiar. It made him smile.

 

One one trip with a full bucket, Egg came across a familiar face. “Wally!” he called out.

 

The captain’s son turned and smiled as he came over to meet Egg. “Ionos!” Wally happily greeted. The young boy kept pace with Egg as he went about his work.

 

“Glad to see you again, Wally,” Egg earnestly told him. He deposited his bucket to waiting washerwoman.

 

“Why are you being a deckhand?” Wally asked.

 

Egg explained that it was part of his agreement with his father, working for his passage. He grabbed another bucket and padded by on bare feet.

 

“What have you been up to since we’ve taken sail?” Egg asked the captain’s son.

 

“Climbing the crow’s nest,” Wally answered.

 

Egg stopped to look at him. “You’re parents let you climb the rigging?” he asked, surprised. None of his parents allowed him, seven hells, Jon Connington flat out forbade him from doing so. He cringed at the thought of Jon, and how upset he must be now.

 

“No they don’t,” a cool voice answered. Egg looked and saw a young man his age looking sharply at the two of them. He was tall and lean, his skin tanned from a life at sea, his shaggy black hair was salt crusted and his eyes pale like shards of glass.

 

“Osric!” Wally shouted, sheepishly curling in on himself. Egg raised an eyebrow and looked between the two of them.

 

Osric came forward and extended a calloused hand to Egg. “Osric Bolton,” he clarified, voice crisp and face unexpressive.

 

Egg put down a bucket and extended his olive skinned hand. “Ionos Sonaro,” he returned, shaking the proffered hand.

 

“Osric’s my cousin,” Wally tacked on. “He was watching me the day you pulled me out of the river.”

 

“Ah,” Egg said, hoping he masked his confusion. _How did they come to be related? House Stark and House Bolton have a long and bloody history between them._ “The one you ran off from?” he asked.

 

“Yes,” Osric said, sounding exasperated.

 

“Well I can’t run off now,” Wally defended. “What with being on a ship and all.”

 

“And your parents won’t be pleased if they hear you’ve been climbing to the crow’s nest, regardless,” Osric retorted.

 

Wally crossed his arms and pouted at his cousin. “They let Sarra climb the crow’s nest,” the boy petulantly argued.

 

“That’s her job,” Osric groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. Egg got the distinct impression that this was not the first time these two have had this argument.

“And you shouldn’t be bothering others while their going about their jobs, Wally,” Osric continued. “You’ll get them in trouble with your mother and father.”

 

Wally pouted some more. “But I can help out on deck. And do more important things that sitting inside to learn sums and stuff.”

 

 _Ah, avoiding lessons_ Egg thought to himself.

 

“Just go back to your lessons. Grandfather is not a patient man, and is expecting you.” Osric sighed, gesturing behind him with a jerk of his thumb. Wally walked back with slumped shoulders, and Osric Bolton watched him go.

 

When he left Osric turned back to Egg, not looking at him and rubbing the back of his neck with his hand.“I never got to thank you earlier for saving him,” Osric said to Egg. “So, thank you Ionos Sonaro.”

 

“I was glad to help,” Egg politely returned. “I just hope he won’t need me to prevent his drowning a second time.”

 

“So do we all,” Osric agreed.

 

“I take it he likes to wander on his own,” Egg said as he leaned down to pick up the bucket.

 

“Aye,” Osric said as he scrubbed at his face with his hand. “He can’t seem to stay in one spot for more than half an hour at best.”

 

Egg nodded, not sure what to say. “But you seem a good cousin, to watch over him so,” he awkwardly said.

 

Osric raised an eyebrow at him.

 

“I’ve never met my cousins,” he lamely explained, averting his gaze. _And I don’t expect a warm welcome should we meet, given how tales of my death had spread for so long._

 

“Ah,” Osric intoned. “I’m- I’m sorry to hear that.”

 

Egg shrugged, cringing at himself for steering the conversation this direction.

 

“Captain Dorrhen had mentioned that you were separated from your family as a baby,” Osric tacked on.

 

Egg nodded.

 

Osric looked thoughtful before taking one of Egg’s empty buckets. “I’m curious about you. Would you care to talk more of yourself?” he asked as he walked on.

 

“Depends on what you care to know,” Egg honestly replied as he kept pace with the young Bolton. “And I propose a trade.”

 

“What sort of trade?” Osric asked, stopping to look at Egg. His pale eyes glinted in the bright sunlight like icy daggers.

 

“A question for a question,” Egg answered simply, lowering the bucket to the choppy sea. The wind and lapping sea filled the silence as Osric mulled over this proposal.

 

“Sounds reasonable,” Osric commented, “depending on what you care to know.”

 

Egg almost rolled his eyes at his words being thrown back at him. “What’s your first question Osric Bolton?” he asked instead.

 

“Captain Dorrhen and First Mate Berena mentioned you have a brother in Westeros. In Winterfell.” Osric stated, lowering his own bucket.

 

Egg nodded, keeping his eyes on the water.

 

“Are you and he of the First Men?” Osric asked.

 

“Aye,” Egg answered. “The blood of the First Men runs through our veins.” He began pulling his bucket up with a coarse rope. “May I ask how you’re kin to the captain?”

 

Osric began lifting his bucket as well. “The captain is my uncle. My mother is his older sister,” he replied.

 

“Ah,” Egg intoned. He grunted as he hefted the bucket over the railing and back on deck.

 

“The woman you boarded with. Who is she?”

 

Egg looked at Osric. He was staring down at the bucket, stern faced and serious. “She’s my mother’s dearest friend. She brought me to Essos and has been watching over me since my father died in the Rebellion,” he answered. He gripped the bucket and began to move it to another part of the deck. He mulled over his thoughts trying to think of a question to ask Osric.

 

“Is Wally Captain Snow’s only child?” he wound up asking. Osric stopped his walking for a brief moment before staying in step with Egg.

 

“Only son,” Osric told him plainly.  “Captain Dorrhen has two daughters, Sarra and Marna.” He dumped some water on the deck for another worker to mop up the boards. “Is your brother your only sibling?”

 

Egg winced. He stopped and stared down at his side. Rhaenys was looking up at him with her big, violet eyes. She gave him a soft smile and a hug. “You don’t have to talk about me Egg,” She said into his belly. “It’s okay.”

 

“We had an older sister,” Egg whispered, willing his arms to stay down and not hug Rhaenys. She gave him a tight squeeze around the middle. “Have you any siblings?”

 

“None living,” Osric said thickly. A heavy and awkward pause hung between them. “And my condolences, Sonaro,” he said, breaking the lull in their conversation.

 

“And you have mine,” Egg told him.

 

They continued this sort of back and forth game. From it Egg learned that the company works similarly to Westerosi nobility. Only instead of Lords and Ladies, heads of Houses are called Captain and instead of keeps they had ships. And instead of a Stark king, they have a Captain Snow.

 

They seperated for lunch and Egg waved Osric Bolton off with a genuine smile. He sat with Lady Ashara. She seemed a bit cautious of everyone else, but told him that her bunkmates were pleasant, no-nonsense women that were a breath of fresh air.

 

After eating some salted fish and hardtack he carried on with other jobs given to him. Hauling rope and rigging tither and hither, swabbing the deck, pulling sails with the others to catch the changing winds.

 

By the time night fell, he inhaled his supper and promptly fell into his hammock. And near instantly fell asleep.

 

Back in the ever summer forest with the Heart tree, Egg was lying on his back. He turned his head and saw Jae mirroring his posture. Both brothers rose and sat upright.

 

“I have much to tell you Jae!” Egg blurted out.

 

“Mother Lyanna says you’ve met with the Company of  the Rose’s Captain!” Jae blurted out at the same time.

 

They both stared at each other with wide violet eyes. “I’m coming to the North with them,” Egg said in a rush. He then went on to tell him what he learned about the Company and Captain Snow in a single breath. Jae stared at him with rapt attention, a small smile forming on his face.

 

“What’re you grinning about?” Egg asked.

 

Jae nervously chuckled. “Nothing,” he mumbled. “I’m just --I’m excited that you’re on your way here,” he explained.

 

Egg couldn’t help himself. He pulled Jae to him and pressed a kiss to his temple. “As am I _valonqar,_ ” he told him.

 

“I heard you found Blackfyre,” Jae said enthusiastically, a childlike spark of wonder in his eyes.

 

Flashes of his last night aboard the _Shy Maid_ came back to Egg. _‘Red,’ the guard had choked out before falling into a puddle of his own blood and wine._

 

“Aye,” he rasped, not looking at his little brother. “I did.”

 

“Egg?” Jae asked softly. “What bothers you _l_ _ēkia_?”

 

Egg pulled his brother closer and buried his nose in the black curls. He played with the ends of the long, loose hair in a melancholic silence; forcing himself to think of something, anything else. _It almost looks like Lady Ashara’s rather than Mother Lyanna’s,_ he belatedly thought. _But then again, Dyanna Dayne and Betha Blackwood married into House Targaryen and they both had black hair._

 

“Aegon?” Jae asked, voice colored with undisguised worry. He had placed a warm hand on Egg’s chest.

 

“Turns out Jon Connington and I are not the only ones to have faked their deaths,” Egg finally told Jae in a low whisper.

 

“Truly?” Jae asked hesitantly.

 

Egg hummed and kept playing with his hair. To keep his mind from thinking of that red puddle, he began braiding his brother’s hair.

 

“Who is it?” Jae asked, letting Egg play with his hair.

 

Egg stared more intently at the strand of hair he held between his calloused fingers. “It’s not my secret to tell, but you’ll meet when we get to White Harbor,” he eventually said.

 

“They’re travelling with you?” Jae asked in surprise.

 

“Yes,” Egg confirmed, continuing his braiding. “Insisted on not leaving me to go off to Westeros on my own,” he added with a fond smile.

 

Jae gave him a warm smile. “Sounds like a good person then. Like they care about you.”

 

“How do you know that?” Egg asked, puzzled. “I gave you no name or any sort of clue did I?”

 

“No,” Jae assured him with a slight shake of his head. “But you sounded happy when you said that they wanted to come with you.”

 

Egg conceded that with a hum. “What has happened in Winterfell since last we met?” he asked.

 

“Uncle Ned found a direwolf in the Wolfswood,” Jae chirped.

 

Egg blinked stupidly at his brother, his mouth agape. “There are no direwolves south of The Wall,” Egg spluttered. Jae turned his head and gave him a petulant look.

 

“He found one,” Jae insisted. “Bael led him to her in the Wolfswood. He named her Winter and she recently had her litter.”

 

“A litter?” Egg echoed, incredulous. “There are direwolf pups in Winterfell?”

 

Jae nodded.

 

Egg sat there dumbfounded. “How has it been with the new additions to Winterfell?” he had to ask.

 

“Oh, Winter and Uncle Ned are the closest. Some of the ghosts suspect there’s a bond between them, otherwise she’d have not taken so well to him when she was out hunting and pregnant,” Jae happily reported. “She’s beautiful Egg. I can’t wait for you to see her.”

 

“Will she even let me?” Egg nervously asked. He began braiding another section of hair.“I mean, we are brothers but Stark blood doesn’t run through my veins.”  

 

Jae pursed his lips in thought. “Maybe if Uncle Ned is with her,” he mused aloud. “But she’s yet to harm anyone beyond threats and frights. And I don’t think you’ll be her least tolerable person.”

 

“May I ask who is?” Egg asked.

 

“Lady Stark,” Jae replied plainly.

 

Egg wants to believe he’s a good person, but hearing that made his inner dragon thrum. “Please elaborate,” he asked his brother. And Jae went on to say that Winter always growls when she sees Lady Stark, chewed on of her best dancing shoes to ribbons and most recently, gave birth on Lady Stark’s side of the shared bed forcing her to sleep separately from Ned Stark until further notice.

 

Egg bit back his laugh and managed to calm himself down. “How has your egg been, valonqar?” he asked.

 

Jae opened his mouth and--

 

“All hands on deck!” A gruff voice bellowed. Egg blinked awake. He was in his cabin on the Sea Wolf. The ship gave a sharp lurch and he was flung from his hammock onto the wooden floor. “Get up you shits! All hands on deck!” the bosun screamed.

 

Egg and Breck scrambled out of their cabin, jostling and shoving with the other men and women to the top deck. When Egg got there, it was pitch black out save for the lanterns. The wind was howling fiercely like a ravenous monster, rain pelting them like a cold volley of arrows.

 

Egg scrambled to help a group of people pull the rigging for the sails. The rope bit his hands as the deluge continued.

 

Crack! A lightning bolt snapped, illuminating the sky for a heartbeat, showing the night black sea rise in unfriendly peaks. A wave slammed into the side of the ship, throwing Egg off balance, but he held onto the thick rope.

 

He uselessly wiped a layer of rain from his face and pulled the rope again in time with the crewmen. The ship rocked to the other side and Egg lost his grip on the rope. He slid down the deck, slick with rain water, cursing something foul in Rhoynish when he slid against a barrel with a solid thud.

 

He rose to his hands and knees to see another crack of lightning bolting sideways across the sky. Father appeared in front of him, face twisted in worry. He pulled Egg close with one hand and braced him against the railing of the ship.

 

“Hold on!” Father screamed above the wind in a burst of Valyrian. Egg was about to argue that he needed to go help when he felt the Sea Wolf gave a lurch and a very heavy thud reverberated from below deck.

 

“The cargo got loose!” Father screamed when he helped Egg scramble to the railing. Thunder cracked again like a whip overhead. “It’s going to rock the ship!” The ship gave a hard lurch as the steersman altered course.

 

Egg wiped his face again and found that the water peeled off like a mask. He dispelled his brief moment of wonder in favor of looking across the deck. It was chaotic. Bodies ran back and forth to bail water and save the sails. He saw a crewman struggling with rigging at the edge of the rails.

 

Egg crouched and set his gaze to the other side of the deck. _I can do this. I am Rhoynar and a water wizard. Rain will not best me,_ he told himself before running. Every step he took was solid. The water on his feet and the deck displaced with every fall of his feet, lending him to coordination only a water wizard could have in such circumstances.

 

No, what made him slam against the railing was another lurch of the ship as the course was once again altered. He groaned when he felt the onset of a bruise forming on his forearm.

 

“Osric?” Egg shouted above the roaring wind and pelting rain.

 

“Sonaro?” Osric Bolton shouted back, shaking the rain from his face to no effect. Lightning flashed illuminating Osric’s tanned face and water slicked black hair.

 

“What’s to be done?” Egg asked. Thunder clapped again.

 

“We need to secure these knots,” Osric shouted. A tall wave rocked the boat, salt water beginning to pour onto the deck.

 

Egg didn’t need to be told twice. He fell to Osric’s side, deftly tying complex knots he learned from boyhood aboard the _Shy Maid_. Being able to keep the water from obstructing his view with focused intent, Egg was making good pace.

 

The two young men stood, crouching from the deluge that didn’t lighten as they worked. “We need to get to the next set over --” Osric began. He was cut off by the ship giving a lurch, the cargo below reinforcing the lean of the ship.

 

Father grabbed hold of Egg, one hand on the taut rigging so Egg managed to stay on deck. Osric fell overboard. Egg fell upon the railing and saw the bottom of Osric’s boots, his scream drowned in the roaring boom of the storm.

 

Egg panicked, reaching his hand out to the young Bolton sailor. To Egg’s and Father’s shock, Osric stopped falling. Egg blinked, feeling the water soaking Osric clinging to him like a skin tight sheet. Not questioning it, Egg pulled back. He was surprised by the amount of strength he had to exert to carry Osric surrounded by the water he was willing back to him.

 

Osric flopped onto the deck like a freshly caught fish. He coughed and sputtered onto the floorboards.   
  
Egg swallowed and stared at his hands in shock. “Gods and goddesses,” he murmured.

 

“Hey!” a gruff woman’s voice hollered from further along the deck. “Help us down here!”

 

Egg ran down without giving it a thought.

 

It felt like it took little time since Egg’s focus was on helping the crew and the constant awareness of the water on his skin, on the deck and on all the others aboard the ship. The rush of taking action set his blood ablaze, his heart beating like a dancing drum.

 

When the storm passed, Egg slumped onto the floorboards along with the rest of the deckhands. Now that he was off his feet, his limbs and back ached. He could feel bruises starting to form upon his body.

 

Father sat next to him, an arm draped around his shoulders protectively. “You were splendid Egg,” he praised. “And thank the gods you are unharmed.” Egg nodded his agreement.

 

Sleep tempted his heavy eyelids. But before he drifted off, a ghost materialized before him. He was a tall, broad shouldered Valyrian man. His silver hair was kept oddly short and his beard trimmed square. It was his namesake, Aegon the Conqueror.

 

“Come, young one,” he beckoned in High Valyrian with an extended hand and a grin. Egg narrowed his eyes, but rose to his feet with a grumble and curse under his breath as aching muscles rubbed against tender joints.

 

He followed the ghost to the other deck side, staring out at the sea. The clouds had begun to part, and pale moonlight began to paint the horizon. Among the glistening black waves was the crisp silhouette of land. It wasn’t large so Egg took it to be an island.

 

“Where are we?” Egg rasped in a low whisper, face slack from shock at seeing land. _This cannot be the North. And we put considerable distance between us and Essos._

 

“That,” the Conqueror grandly said, pointing at the black shape on the star twinkling horizon. “That Young Egg is Dragonstone.”

 

Egg felt the air leave his lungs. The Conqueror and Father steadied him. The ship turned again and they were sailing towards the island.

 

Egg propped himself up against the railing to stare out at the now approaching island. He felt tears sting the back of his violet eyes, and his bit his lip down hard.

 

He felt a pair of cold arms encircle him in a gentle embrace. Father kissed his brow and stared out at the sea and land with him. “I suppose it’s fitting, that this is the first part of Westeros you come back to,” Father mused, his trademark melancholic smile on his face.

 

Ordinarily he’d be cross with the words since it no doubt calls to the Three Heads of the Dragon prophecy, but Egg was so overwhelmed he didn’t react to his Father’s words. He focused on the island. He willed himself to take every contour of the peaks, every shape that touches the sky and sea, and burn them so deep in his memory he’ll never forget it.

 

Grandmother Rhaella appeared with the first Visenya and Rhaenys . Then others appeared. His sister. Great Grandfather Jaehaerys and Great Grandmother Shaera. Their father Aegon the Unlikely. Maekar. Baelor the Blessed. Daenys the Dreamer. Numerous Targaryens of numerous generations stood with him.

 

These ghosts and Egg were quiet, all staring out at the island where House Targaryen got its start nearly three hundred years ago.

 

“This is your birthright,” the Conqueror proclaimed, giving Egg a bow of his head. He waved his hand towards the island solemnly.

 

“Above all else, this seat is to be yours and your brother’s,” the first Visenya told Egg. Her eyes were dark like the Conqueror’s, like Jae’s and their sister’s, and glistened like polished crystals and water drops. “And I will not rest until you and he can walk these halls unafraid and bearing your true names. ”

 

“May you and Jaehaerys see your children roam these halls,” the first Rhaenys said to him. She gave him a warm, teary smile.

 

After them many ghosts echoed similar sentiments to Egg. Daenys said nothing, but she gave him an airy smile that he wasn’t sure how to read.

 

His throat felt tight, words lodged inside him. Egg was silent as a few stray tears slipped from his eyes that he wiped with the back of his hand. He was back in Westeros.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays! Again I'm so sorry it took so long! Life got a bit hectic and stuff. So in the spirit of the holidays, here's the newest update. I was a bit iffy about this chapter, but I knew that I had to upload by today in spirit of the holidays. I hope you all enjoy it!
> 
> I hope you all have an amazing holiday whatever you celebrate! 
> 
> Lots of Love!
> 
> Sketchi


	21. Lyarra II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyarra lends a helping hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so late guys! I hope you all enjoy this chapter! Let me know what you think of it.

It was dawn, and Lyarra was wandering the halls of Winterfell. She entered a hall and saw Ned groggily walking down the hall with a large bowl of meat. When Ned saw her he jumped slightly. 

 

“Mother?” He asked in surprise. He had dark bags under his eyes and carried a weary air about his person. 

 

“What are doing awake, Ned?” she asked, her eyebrows and face knitting in concern. “I’d have thought you’d sleep for a few more hours yet. 

 

He yawned before answering her. “I woke from my sleep with the thought that Winter was hungry,” he said, frowning. “I tried to go back to sleep, but the thought nagged at me until I got out of bed and went down to the kitchens. The cooks were kind enough to give me these scraps for her.” He motioned sluggishly with the bowl of said scraps. 

 

“I don’t think that’ll sate her,” Lyarra mused. “She’s a large beast with a nursing litter.” 

 

“I agree,” Ned said with a nod. “But I wanted to give her something for now, and get more for her later.” He resumed his walk to where Winter and her brood are. 

 

Winter gave birth in the bedroom where Ned used to sleep with his wife, growling protectively when anyone other than Ned opens the door. Lyarra mused that she must think the room as her den. 

 

As Ned was currently opening the door, there was no growling, but the snuffling and high pitched squeaky barks of the pups. Winter lifted her head and gave Ned a tired, but pleased look from where she and her pups lay curled on the large bed.  

 

“Here you go, Winter,” he told the direwolf with a tired smile and placed the bowl of meat near Winter’s front with a slow pat on her head. She gave Ned’s hand a lick before turning her head to eat. 

 

“She’ll be spoiled before you know it,” Lyarra kindly chided. 

 

“She’s already spoiled,” Ned retorted with a look and tone she remembers from when she was alive. “And it’s her own doing. She chose this room to be her new den,” he said, gesturing to the room they were in with a  furtive wave of his hand. 

 

The pups squeaked, drawing the attention of the man, ghost and she-wolf. Lyarra stared down at the wiggling little pups with wonder.  _ How long has it been since so many direwolves have been in Winterfell?  _ She silently wondered. One gray pup gave a high pitched squeak. 

 

The pups varied in size and fur color. There were four gray pups, a loud black one, and a small white one. Six pups. Lyarra went stiff. Six pups.  _ Jae. Robb. Arya. Rickon. Bran. Sansa. Six Stark children.  _

 

“Mother?” Ned called out softly. She turned to her son. He was looking at her with concern. She blinked and instead of a grown man she saw the little boy he was, giving her that same look when he visited her sickbed. She blinked and he was grown again. She blinked again and he was still grown. 

 

“What do you think of coincidences as of late, my son?” she asked him. 

 

He knitted his brows slightly. “You’ve counted the pups,” he deduced. She nodded. “It hasn’t escaped my notice either,” he told her. 

 

“Seems all the more likely for Arya’s wish to bond to a pup to be true then,” she noted fondly. Ned smiled warmly at her mention of Arya.  “Especially since it seems you’re the first Stark to do so in a thousand years, my dear.” 

 

Ned blinked and bashfully frowned at the attention being turned to him. “I’m not a skinchanger like Cona and her son. Our bond isn’t that strong,” he deflected.  _ Perhaps one day it will be,  _ she mused. Winter turned from the empty bowl and licked Ned’s hand, chuffing. Ned scratched her behind her ear and she closed her eyes in contentment. 

 

Ned yawned loudly into a fist as dawn creaked in from the glass window. Winter yawned right after him, as Ned tiredly rubbed his hand down his face. 

 

“Go get some sleep Ned,” she told him just as she did when he was knee high to her and asking for ‘just one more story, please?’

 

“Can’t,” he mumbled. “Maybe tonight.” 

 

Motherly concern ate at her when a thought came to her mind. “Robb,” she said aloud. 

 

“Robb?” Ned asked in concern. 

 

“Why don’t you delegate some of your work to Robb? He needs to know how to run Winterfell, and one day’s experience isn’t enough,” She reasoned, calmly. “Give him some tasks, start to temper him into being Lord of Winterfell.” 

 

“Robb has his studies and lessons. I don’t want to disrupt his boyhood anymore than I must with the Long Night coming,” Ned defensively protested. 

 

Because this is her son, she held her quick remark and thought on his words. She saw his point, letting children be children for as long as possible, especially with what their all about to face this coming winter. And it isn’t fair, what her children and grandchildren have been through, and what is coming for them next. 

 

“I’m not telling you to force him to be a man right this very moment,” Lyarra explained. “But Robb is old enough to have some responsibilities in the upkeep of Winterfell. He learned from the...maester,” the word curled sourly on her tongue, “the theoretics of ruling this castle. You’ll just be starting him on a practical lesson instead.” 

 

Ned was silent as he mulled over her words. “That...seems reasonable,” he finally said. “I’ll speak with Maester Luwin about Robb assisting me today.” 

 

Lyarra bit back a triumphant smile. “May I assist Robb?” she asked her son. 

 

Ned blinked. “Of course,” he said instantly. “Of course you can, Mother.” 

 

His earnestness made her warm.  He scratched Winter’s ear again before leaving the room, closing the door behind him. 

 

She gazed at the she-wolf who had curled up to sleep again.  Lyarra smiled and was silent as she willed herself to check on Jae. She materialized in Jae’s room, the one on the far side of the castle, away from the rest of her grandchildren. She took a deep breath and refused to go down that line of thought again. 

 

Her grandson was sleeping in his bed, buried up to his nose in furs and blankets. One bundle being the purring black mass her grandchildren call Balerion. To his bedside was Princess Elia carding a hand through his long inky curls; a soft, sweet smile graced her face, and her daughter Lyanna leaning against the Dornish woman as she looked down at her Northern son. 

 

“I know heat is no bother to Jae,” Lyarra called out. “But that is a mighty large number of furs.” 

 

Lyanna jumped slightly at her presence but Princess Elia looked up at her and kept her smile. “Good mother,” she greeted. 

 

“Good daughter,” Lyarra greeted kindly. “Daughter,” she greeted Lyanna. 

 

“Good morning, Mother,” she greeted. 

 

“Has he slept well?” Lyarra asked, walking closer to Jae. He still slumbered, soft, even breaths coming and going. 

 

“Aye,” Princess Elia said, continuing to run her fingers over Jae’s black curls like they’re priceless silk. “Slipped off to sleep as soon as he lay on his pillow.” She gave a warm, sunny smile as she slid her gaze back to Jae. 

 

“Good,” Lyarra said. “Growing boys need all the rest they can get.” 

 

Lyanna smiled. “Aye, but if he’s got Rhaegar’s stature, I fear he won’t have much to grow into,” she remarked. 

 

Lyarra snorted, and Princess Elia giggled. 

 

“Speaking of your husband,” Lyarra began, “where is he?” 

 

Lyanna and Elia shared a concerned glance with each other.  “Let’s take this somewhere else,” Elia suggested, “the library perhaps.” Her good mood had slipped. The three moved from Jae’s room to the library with only a blink. 

 

Lyarra waited, she had stopped smiling. “We were just speaking about him. He was with Egg when the ship he was on came across a storm at sea,” Lyanna answered, nervously biting the nail of her thumb. 

 

“Is Egg alright?” Lyarra asked in genuine concern. The boy may not be a Stark, but he’s Jae’s brother, Lyanna’s son by all but blood. Egg is practically her grandson. 

 

“He’s alright,” Elia said, “Rhaegar came by earlier to tell us. We’re just nervous because the storm cost the Company some of their stores and supplies, so they will be making port to replenish.” 

 

Lyarra grimaced. “Unfortunate delay,” she said. “But at least he’s unharmed,” she soothed at the two pinched expressions. 

 

“Yes,” Lyanna sighed, sounding a bit put out. “But I can’t help my impatience. Egg’s finally on his way to meet Jae, and there’s a snag in the trek this early on. I can’t help but worry there will be more delays and setbacks for Egg if this is how his journey to Winterfell begins.” 

 

Elia wrapped an arm around Lyanna and gave her a wry smile. “As do I, Lyanna,” the Dornish Princess said, staring into Lyanna’s long face. Lyanna rested her hand on Elia’s and gave her a mirrored smile. The two wives of Rhaegar Targaryen leaned into each other. 

 

Lyarra felt a familiar warm sense of relief curl inside her happily. She used to worry how her daughter would fare in a polygamous marriage to the Silver Prince, but she lost those worries over a decade ago. She may not truly understand how such a marriage works, but the three truly and earnestly care for each other and love all their children equally, and that’s what matters to her most. 

 

She decided to go check on the rest of her grandchildren, in the opposite side of the castle from Jae’s room. The thought made her sharply exhale. Her hand itched to throw something. She shook her head and willed herself away. Given the early hour, all of Ned’s children here in Winterfell were still asleep. Some slept serenely, some sprawled on their backs, and Bran slept as still as a log. 

 

Satisfied that all is well with her living grandchildren, she goes to seek out some ghostly company. She made her way to the Great Hall and went still. Rickard was there, sitting in an empty chair at an empty table. He was staring vacantly at his folded hands on the table as servants passed by unaware to ready the hall for the morning meal. 

 

“Rickard? Husband?” she called out as she approached him. He jerked and looked at her in surprise. 

 

“Lyarra,” he said as he stood to greet her. “Good morning.” 

 

“Good morning,” she returned, puzzled. They stood in awkward silence. “What is troubling your mind, Rickard?” she asked, killing the awkward tension with her words. He sighed and tugged his gray streaked beard, a tell of his. “Be honest with me, husband,” she firmly told him, knowing he tugged his beard when he lies. 

 

The hand dropped from the beard. Another sigh. “I cannot help but worry about what will happen down south,” he answers. 

 

She felt her eye twitch and her temper rise. “The North will be the first of all the Seven Kingdoms to face the Others. What importance does the South have that it distracts you so?” she testily asked through gritted teeth. 

 

He held his hand up as if to holdback her temper. “Jae had another dream, he mentioned it to me some days ago,” Rickard sternly said. 

 

“What did he dream?” she asked, her hackles lowering in curiosity. Despite watching him grow from a babe, she is still surprised by his Valyrian ancestry, and the gifts it has given him, at times.  

 

“He dreamt it the night Ned and Robb went to Cona’s crypt,” Rickard explained. “He dreamt of an old falcon being poisoned.” 

 

An old falcon? “Jon Arryn will die then?” she asked. She wasn’t sure how to feel about that. She bore him no particular grudge, beyond that of a mother who never desired for her children to be sent beyond the Neck. And she knows Ned cares for the old lord, and that Lord Arryn treated her son well during his fostering. But she cannot and will not be dishonest about her feelings.

 

“Poison?” she asked for clarification. 

 

“Jae said he would be poisoned with tears,” Rickard elaborated with a furrowed brow. 

 

“Tears?” Lyarra grimaced. Jae’s dreams were notoriously true and unfortunately were just as poetically riddling. 

 

“He said a she-fish will poison the old falcon with tears,” Rickard continued. 

 

Lyarra paused, her eyes glinting as sharp as a knife. “His wife or Ned’s?” was all she asked, venomously. 

 

“Unclear, but a mockingbird will urge them to do so,” Rickard answered. 

 

Lyarra groaned and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Lord Arryn’s murder will prove to be a distraction to Ned,” she groaned. “One he doesn’t need.” 

 

“I fear it will cause more than a distraction,” Rickard tacked on grimly. 

 

Lyarra looked to her husband. “What do you mean?” she asked. 

 

“Lord Arryn is Robert Baratheon’s Hand,” Rickard stated. “When he dies, who will be named as the next one?” 

 

Lyarra paled. “Shit,” she cursed. “He’ll want Ned?” she asked. 

 

“Ned is considered his dearest friend,” Rickard grumbled. “A brother in all but blood he once said back when I still lived. They’ve fought together in battle twice as of yet. He’ll mostly likely be Baratheon’s first choice.” 

 

“Ned is the Stark that holds Winterfell,” she argued. “Now more than ever he cannot leave the North. Robb is not ready and the world believes Jae to be a bastard. And Gods know this place will burn to the ground before I allow that Andal woman to rule instead of a Stark!” she hotly bit out. 

 

Two large hands gently lay on her shoulders. “Peace, my dear,” Rickard said in a low voice. “I’m sorry for upsetting you with this, but this concern has been gnawing on my mind. And I am unsure of what to do should this play out as imagined.” 

 

She sighed and she looked at him. “I don’t know either, Rickard,” she admitted. “There’s so much the North must do, we can’t lose sight of what’s coming.” 

 

They stood together, silent as their minds worked over this problem. “Mayhaps some of the ghosts of former Kingsguards can help. If Jae dreamt it the death cannot be prevented, but perhaps it can be delayed,” Rickard suggested. 

 

She looked up at her husband and felt a spark go off in her mind. “That will at least give us time to find a way to keep Ned in Winterfell,” she continued on that thread of thought. 

 

“And in case we cannot, you will have time to temper and teach Robb how to be a Northman,” Rickard continued with a sage nod to her. She blinked at him in surprise. He smiled, but it held a melancholic twist. “I know that’s something you desire, and I cannot fault you that. As of late I also contemplate what you would have done, should you have lived instead of I,” he said to her in a low voice. 

 

_ I’d have let Brandon marry the Ryswell girl he was so fond of, and tried to keep him from impulsively accusing Rhaegar in King's Landing _ , her mind supplied.  _  I’d have let Ned marry the Dayne girl and would have sent him to my mother or the Mormonts for fostering. I would have listened to Lyanna and found a different man instead. I’d have tried to get Benjen to live a happy life before joining the Night's Watch.  _

 

But she said none of these things. Instead she held his cheek gently in her palm and rested her forehead against his. As much as the tragic events of the past make her blood boil and sharpen her tongue, as much as the current state of Winterfell makes her rage, she knows that her husband didn’t intend for any of what happened. Has always known it perhaps. But it was so easy to snap her fangs at him. 

 

She closed her eyes.  _ I cannot let my feelings get in the way of my ability to help my sons and grandchildren,  _ she told herself.  _  I can’t. I won’t.  _  She opened her eyes and stared at Rickard. He looked back at her, and understanding shone as he read her expression. He carefully tucked a lock of her brown hair behind her ear and brushed a calloused thumb over her cheek. 

 

They shared a brief kiss and held hands, giving their fingers a tentative squeeze. And standing there in the Great Hall, she could almost pretend that she was alive again. Could almost convince herself that if she waited, her children would by babes toddling in and that all that happened was just an elaborate nightmare. Almost, were it not for servants that walked through them as if they weren’t really there.

 

“I don’t want to play around with what-ifs,” she finally said, but not unkindly. “Not when we have so much to do, to prepare for.” 

 

She saw Ned and her grandchildren and Ned’s wife come in to break their fast. Ned and Robb blinked at seeing her and Rickard standing there. They both waved at their family at the table. Robb and Ned smiled, and Jae gave his usual discreet nod and brief glance. 

 

“Aye,” he agreed in a low voice after he turned to see their family come in. “You’re right, my dear.” He looked back to her. They shared another kiss and when they parted they gave each other a determined look. 

 

Rickard looked behind her to the High Table. She turned and saw a familiar scene. Their family was eating their meal. Ned and Robb talking to each other. Bran talking to Arya. Rickon was getting some porridge on his chin. Sansa was daintily nibbling away and her mother was doing much the same when she wasn’t glaring at Jae who was wiping Rickon’s chin with a napkin. 

 

The woman’s glare made her snarl. The brief peace she found eroding when she saw that woman daring to glare at Lyanna’s boy. And seeing Sansa immune to the scathing look unlike the rest of Ned’s brood made her grit her teeth. 

 

She heard an irritable breath loose from her husband. She turned her gaze and saw him staring sharply at the table. She knew beforehand, years before, that the Stark ghosts are far from pleased by the Andal woman’s treatment of Jae, her husband included. Yet, despite knowing this, she felt justified in his displeasure at the lady he picked as their good-daughter. And justified in what she was going to do next while she waited for Robb to finish breaking his fast. 

 

“Tell who you must,” she reminded her husband, and left him with a peck on the cheek. 

 

When she materialized again, she was outside, standing in front of the dreaded Sept. She saw the septon doder along with his lit candles and saw the tart of a septa follow him with her prayerbook. 

 

Lyarra felt like her head was an avalanche, her hands twitching for a weight in them. Scanning the ground, she saw that the earth of the North provided. She picked up a stone as cold as her corpse. It was heavy and smooth in her hand. 

 

She threw it as hard as she could at the window. There were some empty windows from her last bout of stoning the sept, so she aimed for the remaining ones. Mulit-colored glass fell like rain from the window sill. Instead of droning songs of the Seven she heard the screams of the occupants. She shattered another window. And another. And another. 

 

When she ran out of windows she hurled stones at the walls and frames. As she raised her arm a stone flew into the sept, shortly followed by a loud crashing and clattering from the inside. She turned and saw King Theon Stark the Hungry Wolf lowering his long arm, glowering balefully with the iciness of winter. 

 

He stepped forward and took the stone from Lyarra’s surprised hand. “You’d best go to Robb,” he advised. He threw the stone and it sounded like it hit someone inside. “If either of them ask, it was I who did this,” he remarked as he bent over to pick up another stone. 

 

She was confused by his actions, so she thought them over. She is far from pleased with the sept and how Andal like her grandchildren are. Then she remembers Robb’s look of hurt when she plainly told him that she was largely disappointed in his generation and how little she cared for his mother.  _ He’s taking the blame so I can help Robb instead of distance ourselves even more.  _

 

“Thank you, King Theon,” she honestly replied with a bow of her dark head before vanishing again. She popped around various parts of Winterfell, getting a read of each area and what tasks would be needed to get done today. 

 

Once she was done with that, she moved back towards Ned and Robb. They were walking together in a hallway, heads drawn together as they spoke in whispers. 

 

“I hope you’re not speaking of me,” she joked to them. They jumped slightly at her appearance, and she chuckled a bit. She forgot how fun it could be to surprise people like this now that Jae and Egg are used to the comings and goings of ghosts. 

 

“No, Mother,” Ned whispered, casting his eyes about the hall for anyone who may overhear him. She ushered them to an alcove where there would be more privacy. 

 

“So,” she continued, looking between her son and grandson. “What are you to do today, Robb?” she asked them both. Robb furrowed his brow and frowned. They had only been together once, the day Ned found Winter, but the boy’s mother hardly let him do anything. Lyarra bit her tongue throughout much of that day. 

 

“Robb is tasked with taking stock of supplies and then providing me with an estimate of what will be needed,” Ned said, tapping one finger as if ticking off a list. “After that he’s to come with me to the solar to see the messages sent in by our bannerman and I will help him go through how to respond to each house.” Next finger tapped. 

 

“Is that all?” Lyarra asked, a bit put out by what they’re to do, but unlike stories and songs, she knows that ruling is largely boring busywork. 

 

“What would you recommend I do?” Robb asked her, raising an auburn eyebrow at her. Ned shot him a sharp look at his tone, but she didn’t care. She was raised by the Flints, afterall. 

 

She shifted through her many thoughts on what she wants him to do. “Start up a correspondence with other Northern heirs,” she told him. 

 

Both Ned and Robb looked at her with mirrored looks of surprise. “They’re to be your bannermen one day, what better time is there to form a strong bond with them than in youth?” she asked. “I’d recommend you strike up a correspondence with at least two.” 

 

Robb mulled over her suggestion and nodded with a whispered “Yes, Grandmother.” 

 

Ned relaxed and Lyarra smiled slightly. She turned to her son. “What will Jae do?” she asked. 

 

“He will be teaching Arya, Bran and Rickon more of the Old Tongue when they’re done with their lessons.” Before Lyarra could pester him on what Sansa is to do, the Maester came to Ned, preceded by the rattling of his chain. 

 

She didn’t bother to listen to the gray-robed man, and instead mused on who Robb should attempt to befriend. Had the Bolton heir not died last year she’d have suggested him. While the history between the Boltons and Starks have been bloody, the Boltons are only second to the Starks. A friendship between the two houses would have been a boon in creating a unified North against the Others. 

 

She was pulled out of her musings as Ned, Robb and the Maester parted ways. She noticed her grandson carried with him some parchment and a stick of charcoal to make notes and sums. She followed after Robb, asking him where he would be starting. They started with the kitchens. The servants and cooks were surprised at Robb’s appearance. 

 

He talked with the head cook, baker, dairymaid, and butcher to get the figures of what they have in stock. Robb was kind to all of them, having known many of them from when he was small. He shared memories and greetings between notating the figures given to him. The sweets-maker, a stout old woman was rather happy to see Robb. If Lyarra remembered right she always gave the children a secret morsel, including her own four. 

 

“Does me ‘eart good to see you growin’, milord,” The old woman said kindly. She looked around the kitchen, but there was no need since everyone knew of her habit of spoiling children. She put a chunk of honey-candy into his palm with her wrinkled fingers. Robb thanked her graciously. Then she showed Robb a second piece. “For your brother Jon,” the old sweets-maker whispered, “he’s been very busy of late and has yet to come by.” 

 

Robb blinked before a warm smile spread across his face. “Aye, he has,” Robb conceded. “I’ll be sure to send him to you so he can indulge in that sweet tooth of his.” 

 

“Every bit of that boy is sweet, not just his teeth,” the old woman joked, garnering a laugh from both Robb and Lyarra. 

 

Robb went off to go check inventory of the forge, sucking on a chunk of honey candy. They passed by his mother, who was marching towards the Keep with a single minded determination as she didn’t even acknowledge Robb.  Her face a red, tear streaked, barely controlled mask of anger.

 

Robb and Lyarra watched her go. “Was it the Sept again?” Robb asked with a worried glance in the direction she came from. 

 

Lyarra held a straight face. “What else upsets her that badly?” was her only reply. 

 

“Grandmother, have the ghosts been desecrating the Sept?” Robb asked, his blue eyes peering at her. 

 

Knowing that she may have to explain some key points, she pulled him to a corner of the castle where he wouldn’t be gawked at for having a conversation with empty air. 

 

“It’s not once been Jae as your Mother always claims,” she told him. A flash of hurt flickered over his face at her words. “Robb, I know you were brought up by your mother to worship the Seven. But you must remember you are the first generation to stray from the Old Gods in any way. Many of the Ghosts of Winterfell keep the Old Way and only the Old Way, for to them there was no New This or That.” 

 

“I know Jon never goes to the Sept, but wasn’t he taught the same as I?” he asked. “Aren’t Targaryens and Martells followers of the Seven the same as Tullys?” 

 

The question surprised her. “His father and other mother were in life perhaps,” she told her grandson honestly. “But with their deaths, with what happened to Rhaella, Rhaenys and Elia in the Red Keep, they do not hold faith in the Seven. So Jae and Egg do not pray to the gods of your mother.” 

 

Robb looked dumbfounded. “Aegon,” he blurted with an emphasis of disbelief, “Aegon follows the only Old Gods?” 

 

Lyarra finally worked through Robb’s meaning. “If you believe my distaste lies in believing in more than the Old Gods, allow me to clarify my opinions, Robb.” She held his blue gaze with her gray one. “Jae and Egg believe in more than the Old Gods. Those boys pray to the Pantheon of Valyria and the Mother Rhoyne as well.” 

 

Robb looked dumbstruck. “I thought those religions died in Essos,” he murmured. 

 

“I will not lie and say I understand those beliefs and those gods,” she honestly laid out. “But the North has not been antagonized by believers of those gods. It was the Andals who attacked our lands, our faith and massacred the Children of the Forest. The Conqueror let us keep our faith and our stories, and we’ve had seldom contact with the Rhoynar.” 

 

“I know,” he told her. “But still, I never knew Jon believed so,” he admitted, his eyes downcast. 

 

“How would be able to explain why he speaks four tongues, or why he prays to Valyrian gods before bed some nights and to the Rhoynar goddess some others?” She asked. “Much of Jae’s heritage, knowledge and thoughts are secret because if it became known his life and your father’s are at stake.” 

 

Robb nodded, deep in thought. Silently he left the hiding spot and went about the rest of the first task his father gave him again. He was still amiable to the servants, chatting every so often with one when he looked up from his tallying. 

 

Robb managed it in a timely manner, Lyarra piping up when Robb began his estimates. “The weather is unpredictable at times. And if the Long Night is coming soon, it will begin to affect harvests as it nears. So keep in mind a cushionable amount in case of something occuring before the next harvesting. Whatever isn’t consumed can be stored for later.” 

 

Robb agreed with her statement. “Would it not also be prudent then to do some amount of trade with other for crops and supplies. To lessen the burden of the Northern smallfolk. A portion of what’s brought in can go towards supplies for the Long Night,” he suggested. 

 

She thought it over. “Sounds reasonable. Make sure to bring it up with your father,” she told him with a nod. At his surprised look, she snorted. “We were an independent kingdom Robb, true, but we were not isolated.” 

 

They both went back to the Solar and talked over their findings and ideas with Ned. Ned gave Robb an approving nod at his ideas. The boy lit up like the sun at the praise. 

 

They both stopped to take a lunch in the solar. “When is Winter going to be joining you again?” Robb asked after swallowing some warm bread. 

 

“After her pups get a good bearing on walking I would guess,” he mused. “But perhaps a bit after that since mothers tend to fuss over their children.” 

 

“If we went through the pains of carrying and bringing you into the world we can’t help it,” Lyarra said with a laugh. 

 

When Ned and Robb finished their lunch, Ned was pulling out some messages that came in. He was showing Robb a message from Bear Island, and explaining that Maege’s message shows her concern about the Iron Islands. That the Umbers are concerned about the Wildings, the Manderlys with trade and the Karstarks with rubbing elbows with the Starks. He was doing that with all the messages from his bannerman; explaining how knowing the location and the wants of the Lord or Lady ruling give him an idea of the concerns of each bannerman. 

 

“The trick is balancing all these nuanced concerns and desires in a way that one: doesn’t negatively affect us and two: is largely agreeable to the majority. Try not to play favorites or give them cause to question your capabilities,” Ned advised, gesturing to the messages with his hands. 

 

Robb groaned into his hands. Ned gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “No one said ruling is fun,” Ned sighed. 

 

“No one that actually ruled, anyway,” Lyarra amended for him. She looked between the two and mulled over her thoughts. She watched the way Ned spoke to his son, encouraged answers from him, and how he helped him alter some of his answers. Robb being a bright lad was able to keep up with his Father and genuinely consider all he answers before giving them. And Ned seemed to take an honest interest in spending this time with his son like this. 

 

She felt herself smile.  _ Maybe with the right tutelage and guidance, Robb will make a good Lord of Winterfell. _


End file.
